Phone Calls from John the Baptist
by Marzipan77
Summary: They were quick to send Daniel away, to drug him, and restrain him behind padded walls. They called him schizophrenic. His sickness created by the Stargate, Daniel's greatest achievement. From diagnosis to hypothesis to treatment, there must have been so much more that went on behind the scenes. And surely Daniel's friends - his family - wouldn't abandon him so easily.
1. Chapter 1

On mental illness: "Don't ask me those questions! Don't ask me what life means or how we know reality or why we have to suffer so much. Don't talk about how nothing feels real, how everything is coated with gelatin and shining like oil in the sun. I don't want to hear about the tiger in the corner or the Angel of Death or the phone calls from John the Baptist." ― Susanna Kaysen (_Girl, Interrupted_)

What was happening to him?

Daniel lay flat on the infirmary bed, one knee bent, right arm across his chest, the other lying at his side, fingers tapping out an irregular rhythm against the mattress, the plastic coating under the thin sheet making a loud sort of echo that snapped in the quiet air. His eyes were open – wide open – flicking back and forth in a search pattern, but the stained concrete ceiling was giving him about as many answers as the nurses and doctors that had parked him here after the latest round of tests.

Jack was long gone. After feeling up an innocent saline bag and attempting to pierce through the fog of Daniel's confusion with that dark, thousand watt stare of his, he'd yielded to Janet's shooing and her promise of 'news as soon as I have some, Colonel,' with a finger wave and a bland expression. Daniel had learned over the past few years to be wary of that blandness: something was likely lurking underneath, ready for an opportunity to bite.

Like a shark. A deceptively porpoise-looking shark. A porpoise-looking shark that lured you in with its playful antics and then had you for lunch.

His lips quirked. He could almost see the image – himself in a cool blue ocean, the grey-bodied sea creature circling, just beneath the surface, keeping hidden. The water rippling in concentric circles, shades of blue and grey, out from Daniel's body, and then coming back with greater force. He frowned. He was stuck in that ocean – that pond – the shark wasn't Jack, and it wasn't playful. It was grey and stark and dragged something like seaweed draped across its body. He blinked, trying to erase the image, but now he was caught in a whirling puddle bounded by silver – the Stargate, the open wormhole, the energy holding him somehow upright and motionless while contorted figures made of bone and tatters swam closer and closer. Closer. Too close. Skeletal arms reached for him, ripped at his clothing, drew blood.

"_Daniel – Daniel –"_

"Daniel?"

He jerked backwards, arms slapping at the water, legs kicking out. "No!"

"_- we're coming, Daniel -"_

They were too close, pulling him under, trying to drown him. One clutched at his arm, the fingers small and cold, holding tight. He surged upwards, neck stretched to try to reach the clear air.

"Doctor Jackson!"

He gulped in a huge lungful of air and tossed his head to clear the water from his vision, twisting, turning, to find his attackers, his enemies –

"Daniel – can you see me?"

Frowning, he felt his heart beating like ravens' wings in his chest. "Janet?"

Janet. Nurse Clark. Rounding the bed, a large airman. The infirmary. The mountain.

"S- sorry," Daniel stammered, cold and shaking, "s-sorry." He tried a snorted laugh. "That was some dream – nightmare."

Soft brown eyes pierced straight through him. "Daniel."

The arm she wasn't holding was pulled in tight against his chest, the muscles of his chest and shoulders rigid with tension, his fist clenched. Fight or flight. Fight or – he straightened, scanning the faces of the two women. He saw fear, concern, Janet was pale, and the nurse, stern – no change there, his more sarcastic self inserted sharply – but neither seemed mussed or hurt. He didn't – he wouldn't –

"No, Daniel. We're fine."

Eyebrows lifting, he blinked at the petite doctor as she moved closer, her grip loosening. "We're just worried about you."

Had he said that out loud?

"Let's get you back in bed."

"Janet –" Daniel hesitated to argue with her, to put any more stress on her slim shoulders, but he wasn't – he couldn't stay here – it was too quiet – too empty. "Can't I just go back to work? I'm going stir crazy in here, lying around like I'm injured."

She guided him to lie back, fixing a blood pressure cuff around his arm, hands busy, calm, but her professional mask a little loose around the edges. "Physical injury is easy, Daniel. Whatever is causing your symptoms is … not quite as easy to pin down."

He couldn't help comparing the squeeze of the expanding blood pressure cuff to the feel of her hand – and realizing that her panicked grip had been tighter. He lowered his voice. "Janet – what's going on?"

She wouldn't meet his eye.

"Janet?"

Finally, after checking her machines and making a few notations on his chart, she held it against her chest and looked at him. "Why don't you tell me what you were just seeing, Daniel? What was upsetting you?"

His eyes flicked towards the nurse where she was hovering behind Janet, her movements almost completely shielded by the doctor's small figure. "It was just a dream." What was she doing with the instruments on that tray? Her hands were skittering against the metal, her fingers long, too long, too thin. He didn't want her to touch him with those hands. Nurse Clark's hands were always cold, but this was … this was …

"Daniel?"

He jerked, gaze snapping back to Janet's face. "Really, Janet. It was just a stupid dream. Don't make me tell you that I was dreaming about … Jack."

A smile flickered and was gone. "I'm going to need more if I'm going to get some use out of that as blackmail material," she whispered. "But," she began, immediately solemn, "the readings on your EEG tell me that you weren't actually sleeping."

"Not –" he swallowed thickly, immediately hyper-aware of the sticky pads attached to his skin, "I must have been. There's no – no – "

Janet stepped closer, one hand on his shoulder. Behind her, the nurse had her back to them now, but he heard the clicking of her fingernails, of bone and metal.

"Daniel. 'There's no'- what?"

"No – no – water – no Stargate –" his eyes widened as if he could somehow make them see what that figure in tattered white was doing. "No Linvris …" his voice slowed, weakened. "Is there?" he hissed, pressing backwards, his heels digging into the slick sheets to find traction.

"I'm afraid not." Janet answered kindly. "It sounds like you're having a hallucination."

"What?" Daniel stilled, his mind racing. No. That couldn't be true. He closed his eyes, placing the strange images and fears to one side to try and arrange the facts in nice, linear order. Fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, Daniel followed his trail back through time, each step along the path that had led him to this infirmary bed. Linvris in his closet. Voices in the locker room. Death's head figures coming down the ramp. The chill, hairs standing on end, as something in the Linvris chamber brushed past him. The smell, the instant of panic, when he came face to face with the first corpse.

"No. You're wrong." He opened his eyes and speared her with his cool stare. "I'm guessing that the scene in the Linvris chamber must have touched an old fear, brought some forgotten memory of death back to my subconscious. Now, every time I close my eyes I have some sort of flashback. PTSD. Something like that." He huffed, squaring his shoulders against the mattress. "Hallucinations? Come on, Janet. I know people around here think I can be a little flaky – mostly Jack, again – but I'm not delusional."

Janet tilted her head, considering. "Okay. That is one possible explanation." Her grip on the papers and chart in her arms tightened. "But I have some serious doubts. And some test results to analyze. So, until I have more of a definitive answer for you I'm afraid you'll have to stay here."

Daniel blew out a frustrated breath.

"And, since you're sure it's some kind of stress-induced nightmare, why don't I send Doctor MacKenzie in to talk with you?" She obviously sensed the scorn in his level stare. "It couldn't hurt, Daniel. And, maybe we can get to the bottom of this a little sooner and get you back to work?"

Clever. He nodded in acknowledgement of Janet's cunning gambit. Appeal to his need to stop dwelling, to get his hands on some documents or artifacts and put this whole embarrassing situation behind him. "I don't see how it could help either, but okay."

"Great." She patted his shoulder before turning away.

One finger pointed menacingly, Daniel called her back. "Hey. As long as you keep _that_," he gestured towards the nurse's skeletal figure, "away from me."

"Daniel!" Janet admonished.

"A deal's a deal," he sing-songed.

She shook her head, laughing under her breath. "All right, Daniel. She is about to go off-shift anyway. How about I send Sam down to keep you company?"

He nodded. "Much better." Relief rolled through his aching muscles, but he kept a close watch on the thing Janet thought was her nurse until it stopped skittering around and headed out the door.

MacKenzie sighed and tugged his glasses from his nose with one finger, the thick report falling closed on his desk one single page at a time as if the words within it were trying to hide. Guilt sat heavily in his stomach. All of the accomplishment and pride of well-executed research and the kudos of those few of his peers who were read into the Stargate program had become dust and ashes in his mouth. When this report - these findings - had been all theoretical, when his careful theories, his painstakingly detailed analyses of EEGs, his study of mental disorders, of brain chemistry and genetic predispositions were tucked neatly into stark black type on a white page, he'd actually felt pride. Intellectual accomplishment.

But when the reality leaped from the page to sit before him in flesh and blood, clothed in drab BDUs and wearing the faces of real men and women – heroes – the only emotion he could feel was regret. Regret that he could do nothing to stop this, that he could say nothing to ease the grief and loss, and, finally, regret that his findings gave him no other solution.

Solution. He shook his head, fingers pinching against his nose and his eyes tightly shut. That was not a word he would allow past his lips during the upcoming briefing. There was no _solution_ to schizophrenia.

Doctor Jackson was mentally ill.

His visit with the young man had begun well enough. People of high intelligence often had little use for psychiatric medicine or psychotherapy. Couple that with the previous interactions he'd had with Daniel Jackson after certain extremely difficult missions and MacKenzie hadn't expected to be greeted with openness and heart-to-heart communication.

What he had expected was Doctor Jackson's typical calm sarcasm and pointed observations while he neatly side-stepped any real honesty about his own difficulties. Unfortunately, the sick young man lying too still in the infirmary bed had borne little resemblance to the gifted member of SG-1 he'd encountered before. His carefully constructed façade of poise and quiet, hands clasped loosely in his lap, was barely skin-deep, almost transparent, clumsily slathered over deep fear and confusion. MacKenzie had allowed Daniel to hang onto the shreds of his self-control throughout the interview, pushing very little, and noting every time the young man's voice began to rise in frustration or his gaze drifted, tracking something only he could see.

The test results were clear enough – the psychiatrist saw no reason to antagonize his patient when Daniel clearly could not defend himself with his usual wit. Those moments when the spark of Daniel Jackson's personality shone through his illness, when the young man made an insightful remark, or carried MacKenzie's question to a logical conclusion were perhaps the saddest moments of all.

The knock at his door did not surprise him.

"Come in." He laid his glasses down carefully atop the research study.

Janet Frasier had its twin clutched to her chest. Her face was pale and pinched, the white around her mouth and the shadows crowding her eyes open indications of her anxiety.

He gestured her towards a chair. "I see you've come to the same conclusion."

Her body language screamed denial. "I don't know if it's a conclusion, Colonel. Not yet. It's only been 12 hours since the first indication of Daniel's – of Doctor Jackson's –" Nostrils flaring, she bit off her words and stared at him. Fierce. Accusing.

Of course. MacKenzie leaned back in his chair, giving her the illusion of space, the emotional and professional distance she needed. "I am not the enemy, Doctor Frasier." He would fill that role – 'bad guy', 'outsider'- if she needed him too. If she could not step away from the friendships she'd begun to build with this young man and his team and pull the clean white coat of medical science about her, he would do it. It was his job far more frequently than he liked. Families. Friends. Other doctors. They needed someone to speak the harsh truths, to lay out the deep fears and horrors associated with mental illness in front of them, to force them to face lifelong diagnoses of pain with breath-stealing completeness so that it was impossible to turn away in denial.

"You and I and Doctor Warner all put this report together. We all contributed. After the Jonas Hanson incident, after the mental manipulations of the aliens Nem and Hathor. After discussions with the Tok'ra and the Tollan. After hundreds of MRIs and EEGs, the diagnosis and treatment of everything from migraines to incipient paranoia. Our conclusions –"

"I know what our conclusions were, Colonel. I just –" She seemed to shrink further into the chair. "I just hoped that, if this was going to manifest, that it would take years – decades – for Stargate travel to have these kinds of effects."

MacKenzie nodded. "That was our initial theory. However," he tapped the offending document with one fist, "we did note that team members with certain genetic predispositions or particular birth traumas in their histories might exhibit symptoms long before others."

He watched the grudging acceptance begin to displace the denial in her eyes, watched the reluctant acknowledgement replace the tense fight in her muscles with a scientist's honesty and a doctor's desire for answers. He allowed her a few more seconds to gather her thoughts and then reached out for the half dozen medical files he'd asked her to bring.

She sighed and handed them over. Jonas Hanson's was on top.

"Colonel Hanson was a textbook case. Pre-term delivery and sepsis at his birth. A change in personality not long after SG-9 began Stargate travel." The colonel's MRIs had shown no sign of Goa'uld possession, but, when they had time for further analysis, the gradual loss of grey matter in the brain was evident. There had never been a reason to check Hanson's brain chemistry before his delusions had overwhelmed him, no indication that they should check his neurotransmitters, his dopamine level. Hindsight being 20/20, MacKenzie still kicked himself for missing clues and hints that Hanson was on the verge of a psychotic break. He shuffled that file to the side and took up the next one.

Daniel Jackson.

He laid one hand on the cover, strangely reluctant to open it and confirm what he remembered quite clearly.

"We don't have any birth records for Daniel," Janet reminded him.

"No, but we do have some early hospitalizations in Egypt from which we can extrapolate." Small. Underweight. Lung problems. Pre-term delivery was the obvious explanation for this combination of factors for the otherwise active and curious child. While the medical tie-in of birth trauma, low birth weight, or other obstetric complications to adult schizophrenia gained slow but steady credence within the psychiatric community since its initial discovery in the early 1930s, the most recent studies, making use of large sample sizes and modern record keeping, had fomented brisk and nearly bloody argument.

Even so, far more health professionals agreed with the obvious linkage than denied it.

MacKenzie sighed. "And then, his grandfather –"

Janet leaned forward, armed with a familiar argument. "There has been no documented diagnosis of schizophrenia for Nicholas Ballard."

"No. But he has been housed in a private treatment center for years after," MacKenzie paged through the medical history for the exact wording, "a mild neurotic breakdown." Nonsense. The so-called 'treatment center' was run by a lay Board of Directors easily influenced by access to their wealthy patients' funds. Patient files were filled with meaningless notations concerning 'anxiety,' 'whimsical notions,' and 'childlike antics,' with not a single solitary respected psychiatrist on staff to determine actual diagnoses. Counselors, not therapists, worked with these men and women. Kept them mildly sedated and happily numb and out of the way.

"But we can't make assumptions, Colonel. And, without a diagnosis, Dr. Ballard's medical records are not relevant – and, in this case, cannot legally be discussed in relation to Daniel's … situation."

MacKenzie took a breath and placed his glasses back on his nose, narrowing his eyes at his colleague. "And that is the only reason we had not taken a closer look at Doctor Jackson. Given current circumstances, I consider that a mistake, don't you?" He raised his eyebrows, holding her gaze while he laid one hand flat on the brain chemistry scans which lay loose atop Daniel's medical file. "Doctor Jackson's dopamine levels are climbing. Documented hallucinations and paranoid delusions. There is only one logical –"

The rude noise from across the desk cut him off.

"I don't have much respect for 'logic' when dealing with the Stargate, Colonel. Ever since men began changing into primitive Neanderthals right in front of me, since aliens masquerading as Native American deities made people disappear – hell," Janet threw up both hands, "since I adopted a sweet little girl – an alien little girl – with a bomb in her chest whose entire family had been murdered by a parasitical snake, all of my years of education in science and 'logic' has been turned on its ear." She scooted to the edge of her chair. "We don't know enough. We haven't even begun to come up with other theories that could explain Daniel's behavior."

True. It was all true. And yet. "And while our best people are gathering information, while Doctor Carter and her team make detailed studies, while Teal'c and Colonel O'Neill discuss alien influences, and General Hammond and other SG teams consider other answers, what about Daniel Jackson?"

"What?" Janet frowned, slapped backwards by one simple question. "What about Daniel? We can make him comfortable –"

"Can we? Does this forward-line base have the resources and specialties necessary to help Doctor Jackson? To see to his care, to begin the anti-psychotic treatment that is the only thing that we know of that will bring his brain chemistry back into alignment? To deal with the progression of side-effects likely to manifest? To keep him safe and protected from accidental harm, from possible attacks through the Stargate – even from himself? Is there a treatment team here that will devote themselves to his care and learn, inch by inch, how to help him survive the obviously painful and frightening consequences of his illness? Doctor Frasier. _Janet_." He begged her to look, to see.

What MacKenzie saw were the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. He watched the dawning realization that, no matter how much she cared, or what else might be – eventually – found to be the cause of Daniel Jackson's affliction, that this man needed their help. And he needed their help now. Not when more information came their way, not after more study, not when – and if – their allies answered their call. Daniel Jackson deserved their best care _now_. Anything else was unacceptable. MacKenzie straightened his spine, a lump like molten lead in his gut. "There is only one known method of treatment for such high dopamine levels coupled with auditory and visual hallucinations and delusions. Only one."

"That we know of," Janet added.

"That we know of." MacKenzie nodded, not letting himself get distracted by this thin thread of hope. "And, until what we know changes, you must agree that Doctor Jackson should be moved immediately to Mental Health."

One tear spilled down his colleague's cheek and she dashed it away as if enraged by its presence. "I won't forget about him, Colonel. I won't send him off and pretend this is the end of it, wipe my hands of him."

"Of course not," MacKenzie shot back, his own anger rising. "Why would you? Why would any of us?" No doctor with an ounce of humanity would write off his patient, certainly not one of the medical professionals at the Stargate program – these men and women had proven themselves dedicated, courageous, insightful and compassionate. "Is that what you think I do? What psychiatry does? Lock people away and forget about them, Doctor?"

She turned her head, unwilling to meet his eyes. "Sometimes," she whispered. "Sometimes, it feels like that's what _I_ do, James. Triage. Battlefield doctors have been doing it for years – deciding who lives and who dies. Who gets treatment immediately and who is shuffled off to wait. To make do. Out of sight, out of mind."

"We're not shuffling him off to wait, Janet. Quite the opposite, in fact. If we kept him here, isolated and restrained in the infirmary, hoping and praying for a diagnosis we liked better, then we'd be guilty as charged. We're taking him to a place where we can and will concentrate on helping him – right now and one hundred percent of the time." Waiting was exactly what they could not, in good conscience, do.

Janet turned back. "You'll go with him? Sign on as his primary? Stay with his case?"

It took no time at all for Mackenzie to make his decision. "I will. I'll remain on site, focusing on Doctor Jackson, until he's stabilized." And beyond. They owed the young man that much. He waited for Janet's reluctant nod. "Now," he folded his hands atop the files on his desk, "laying this situation out so that his teammates and General Hammond understand it will be a much harder battle if we are not, clearly and without a doubt, on the same page."

"To his family, James. They're Daniel's family – we need to approach them with that in mind."

"Agreed. So my point is doubly true." He lowered his chin to stare at her over the top of his glasses.

She sighed. "Until I get some different answers from our allies – the Tok'ra, or even some other people we've met out there," she waved one hand in an obvious gesture encompassing the greater galaxy, "with insight into 'gate related mental illness. If – when that happens –"

"_When_ that happens," MacKenzie encouraged, "I'll be as enthusiastic as you are in pursuing it, I promise you." Aliens with healing devices surely couldn't have overlooked injuries of the mind completely. Could they?


	2. Chapter 2

On mental illness: "Don't ask me those questions! Don't ask me what life means or how we know reality or why we have to suffer so much. Don't talk about how nothing feels real, how everything is coated with gelatin and shining like oil in the sun. I don't want to hear about the tiger in the corner or the Angel of Death or the phone calls from John the Baptist." ― Susanna Kaysen (_Girl, Interrupted_)

Chapter 2

"No – no – no – no – _no_ –_don't_ –"

MacKenzie dodged backwards, avoiding Daniel's awkward lunge for freedom.

"Don't – don't –" the man's hoarse – pitiful – pleas for mercy echoed louder and louder in the crowded VIP room. Colonel O'Neill had been wrong. They'd all been wrong. And now two corpsmen, Dr. Frasier, the colonel, General Hammond, and MacKenzie himself were faced with an out of control, delusional man striking out at them with terror-fueled strength.

"Hey, Daniel. Watchya doin', buddy?"

The careful casualness of Jack O'Neill's words was belied by his ashen skin and the fear in the veteran soldier's bleak stare. He'd stepped next to the gurney, catching Daniel around the chest, trying to ease him backwards so that the waiting medical team could attach the restraints. "Calm down. Nobody's gonna hurt you."

Red-faced and stammering, Daniel scrambled to twist away. In his escalating panic, he was quite willing to strike hard, using all of his training, to hurt those who were being very careful not to hurt him in return. One fist caught O'Neill in the side of the head, the other arm flailed, coming close to slamming Janet into the wall.

"God damn it –" O'Neill trapped one arm beneath his elbow, bearing his friend back towards the reaching corpsmen. "I don't need the Deja view, Danny."

A syringe flashed in Janet's hand, catching the light and drawing Daniel's darting gaze just as it looked like the colonel had won. Daniel's renewed struggle sent O'Neill flying to land at MacKenzie's feet.

"Daniel Jackson!"

The sick man froze at the sharp command of the Jaffa who loomed suddenly at the door. Just long enough for Janet to dart in and inject the sedative.

"Teal'c … the Linvris … there's one … in Jack …"

The corpsmen caught the archaeologist's limp form as he crumbled, quickly arranging him on the gurney and securing the restraints around wrists and ankles. MacKenzie reached down to assist the colonel to his feet, holding the man's accusing stare for a long moment.

"I apologize, Colonel. This is my fault." Regret clenched MacKenzie's jaw around the words.

O'Neill was nearly surprised out of his anger. "Your fault? Hell, Doc, you were the one arguing that Daniel should be medicated right away." He turned to watch his teammate as Janet checked Daniel's vitals. "This entire FUBAR situation is because I didn't – I didn't want to –"

"No, Colonel. I should have been clearer. And, for Doctor Jackson's sake, I should have insisted on his immediate transfer to a full care facility. That is my job and my responsibility." MacKenzie had allowed himself to be swayed by the hopeful suggestions, the stubborn insistence of the compassion and friendship of Daniel's SGC family. When faced with something as devastating as mental illness, family could not possibly think straight – it was up to the professionals to do that for them. And he hadn't.

Words fell away as Daniel's gurney moved between them as if a cloud of silence flowed from the man's unconscious form. O'Neill stepped back to allow the medical team to leave, intent on his friend's face, still twisted as if in pain. MacKenzie felt Teal'c's presence at his back and knew that the alien was also carefully watching the gurney's movement.

"What of Daniel Jackson?" the Jaffa whispered.

MacKenzie cleared his throat, catching Janet's eye and her determined nod as she hurried past. "I have an ambulance waiting up top. Doctor Frasier and I will accompany Doctor Jackson to Mental Health where I'll begin to put together a treatment plan for him."

As he made to move away, a large, firm hand on his arm stilled him. He looked up.

"You will heal him? Make him well again?"

They weren't questions so much as gentle commands. MacKenzie focused on his breathing, on displaying a calm and professional manner. No false promises. No false hope.

"I will do everything in my power, Teal'c. But, I must remind you of what I said in the briefing – schizophrenia is not a disease that can be cured through medicine or surgery. Doctor Jackson has a long hard road ahead of him." MacKenzie twisted to include the colonel in the conversation. "You all do."

O'Neill rubbed both hands across his face. "I want progress reports, MacKenzie. I want to know what's going on. And I want access for my team – for Daniel's friends - family – to see him."

MacKenzie held up one hand and the colonel ground to a reluctant halt. "I'm sorry, Colonel. Of course I am more than happy to discuss Doctor Jackson's care with you at any time, you are, after all, his designated next of kin. But I would ask you and your team to give us some time to stabilize Daniel before you visit with him. For the moment, he needs rest and quiet, without a great deal of outside agitation-"

"Agitation! We're his friends! We're not going to abandon -"

"Please, let me finish." MacKenzie held his ground, unbending, before the gale force of O'Neill's passion. When he saw the colonel take that one mental step backwards, saw him leash the fear and guilt behind the solid walls of a soldier, he nodded. "Thank you. I'm talking about emotional agitation, Colonel. Those who are closest to us excite the deepest emotions – love, guilt, fear – where medical professionals do not. Let me and my team do our very best for Doctor Jackson. That's all I ask."

General Hammond had joined them and stood listening, his eyes filled with concern. When it looked like O'Neill might continue with his demands, the general simply placed one hand on O'Neill's shoulder. No. Not 'the general.' This was George Hammond the man. Father. Grandfather. Friend.

"Jack. How can we ask anything other than their very best?"

"Dammit," O'Neill breathed, his eyes turning to the empty doorway.

~o~

"I can do it! I'm not a child!"

MacKenzie motioned for the aide to lay the scrubs down on the bed and step away. The sedative had worn off about fifteen minutes ago, and Daniel seemed calmer – even if this appeared to be another act put on to convince those around him that he was not having difficulty discerning between reality and his continuing hallucinations. The patient's words and actions were calculated and deliberate – at least as far as was possible for him right now. But when anyone got too close, the young man's mask of control slipped away and he lashed out – only verbally, thus far.

"Doctor Jackson, we've removed the restraints for the moment, so I'd appreciate it if you could try to remember that you're among friends here. We are not going to hurt you."

"I know that!" Daniel grabbed the scrubs up in his fists, knuckles white. His eyes were tightly closed, his face screwed up in a desperate attempt at calm. He took three or four deep breaths and then opened his eyes. "Honestly. I know that, Doctor MacKenzie."

"Good. That's very good." MacKenzie nodded. "I also understand how frustrating all this must be. I am happy to give you as much freedom of movement as I can given the circumstances, but, for the moment, someone must remain in the treatment room with you at all times."

"Even when I'm changing."

"Yes," McKenzie answered the not-quite-question. "Even when you are changing." He gestured towards the two men standing on either side of the hospital bed, hands at their sides. "This is Sergeant Nate Harris and Airman Frank Cadiz. Sergeant Harris is a nurse, and Airman Cadiz is an aide. Think of these men as you would the nurses in the infirmary back on base."

Daniel eyed the two wide-shouldered men suspiciously. "Aren't nurses supposed to be small women armed with sharp needles and a smile?"

Cadiz' dark eyes gleamed and the corners of his mouth tilted upwards. "Don't let Nurse Clark hear you say that, Doctor Jackson."

Daniel's eyebrows rose, his features losing most of their resentment for the moment. MacKenzie kept still, hoping the interplay would continue to tease some of the young man's amiable personality out from beneath his burden of illness.

"You've met the daunting Nurse Clark then, Airman?"

Cadiz grinned. "She's my cousin."

The archaeologist's shoulders rose and fell in silent laughter. "Oy," he murmured, "now I'm really scared." As if the word itself reminded him of his situation, Daniel ducked his head and fumbled with the buttons of his jacket with one hand.

MacKenzie hurried to keep the easy tone of the conversation going. "Putting Nurse Clark and her cold hands aside," he offered, "will you allow these aides to assist you, Doctor Jackson?"

The airman took a step towards Daniel, both hands open at waist level. "No privacy in the military, Doc. Don't have to tell a veteran like you, do I?"

Blowing out a frustrated sigh, Daniel handed the scrubs to the waiting aide. "Not after seeing Jack's scrawny ass in the showers far too many times, you don't." The words were light, but the man's voice was a little too loud, a little too brittle.

The airman laughed and shook his head. "Yes, sir." He tossed the scrubs to the nurse and gestured towards Daniel's trembling hands where they were awkwardly trying to force buttons through buttonholes. Cadiz was waiting, MacKenzie knew, waiting for a word, an obvious signal, from their patient that he would be allowed closer. The aides were well aware that what Daniel Jackson needed right now was any small independence of action, the tiniest freedom to make a single decision within this new life. "Just think of it as a med-check after a bad mission, Doc. Frank and me are here to see to your injuries."

"Injuries. That's – that's an interesting way to look at it."

Daniel's voice shook as he continued to fumble with his clothes, his head down and eyes hidden. His anger still simmered just below the surface, and MacKenzie saw at once when the simple actions became too much for him. He nodded meaningfully.

"Doctor Jackson – will you allow me to help you?" Cadiz tried a direct question. Hopefully Daniel understood it for what it was as the aide kept his distance, not reaching out, nor invading Daniel's space in any way. "I'd like to help you."

Daniel raised his head, tears filling his eyes. "I can't – I'm not –" He laughed, the sound shrill and heartbreaking. "This is crazy. Why can't I – can't even –" his hands flapped towards his half-buttoned jacket.

"We can help you, Doctor Jackson," MacKenzie tried again. He'd try as many times as he needed to for as long as it took. Patience. Calm. Professionalism. "Please let us help you."

All the fight went out of the archaeologist in a rush and the young man swayed on his feet. "Daniel," he breathed, just at the edge of hearing. "Call me Daniel. Don't feel like much of a doctor of anything right now."

Cadiz shifted closer, his movements slow and carefully telegraphed ahead of time. "Daniel, then. Let's get you settled in."

It took more than a few minutes to get the young man situated, to make him as comfortable as possible sitting cross-legged atop the bed while MacKenzie busied himself pulling up a chair and fussing with a clipboard and papers, hoping to give his patient some semblance of privacy. The act of giving up his clothes – his uniform – and especially his glasses, robbed Daniel of much of his good humor, ending up with him thin lipped and pale before it was over. The two aides were still nearby, watching the scene with a studied, if friendly, detachment. Their selective deafness to the hard inner truths that might be spoken between patient and doctor was well practiced. Daniel sat, head bowed over fidgeting fingers that plucked at invisible threads on the blankets.

MacKenzie set the clipboard on his lap and steeled himself to begin.

"I'm going to ask you some questions, Daniel. They may seem irrelevant, or silly – a waste of time – but I'd like you to put off those feelings and answer them as best as you can."

The young man did not respond. The only indication that he was listening was the tightening of his shoulders, the hunching of his back as if he would like to curl into a ball and protect himself.

"Before we can begin to structure your care, I'd like to talk about you. What your concerns are. Anything you might be seeing or hearing that might be confusing or strange to you." He nodded towards the white-clad aides. "My staff and I are cleared for information about the Stargate, so you don't have to worry about disclosing any classified material. You can tell me anything at all," he moved his pen in a short circle, "I'm here to listen."

"No matter how crazy it sounds, right?"

MacKenzie smiled gently. "No matter how it sounds, Daniel. I would be grateful if you could trust me enough to tell me anything."

A choked-off laugh bubbled up from somewhere behind Daniel's hunched position. "So if I tell you that there are decaying corpses standing on either side of you, you won't f-freak out?"

He made a quick notation. "No. I won't freak out. Is that what you're seeing?"

Wide blue eyes peeked out from under thick brows, Daniel's gaze darting back and forth around the small treatment room. "Huh. Not right now." He pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand. "They seem to come and go." He leaned forward, blinking. "It's the dead Goa'uld from the planet. They're infiltrating the base; that's what the text on the stone said."

MacKenzie shuffled back to Colonel O'Neill's report. "The Linvris. Nine dead Goa'uld which you found on the planet. Is that right?" Daniel had tripped over one of the decaying corpses. A trigger, perhaps?

"Yes," Daniel agreed quickly, inching closer. "I don't know why no one can see them. M-maybe – maybe –" he frowned, fingers twitching, eyes unfocused. "I don't know why – maybe they're – they're inside me - in my head –" He stopped abruptly as soon as the words left his lips. "Right. In my head." His smile was thin and sorrowful. "That's the problem, isn't it? It's all in my head."

"I believe that they are hallucinations, yes, Daniel, but I've been told that Colonel O'Neill and Major Carter are sweeping the base in order to make sure of that assessment."

"They are?"

The astonishment in the young man's voice nearly cracked MacKenzie's professional façade. "Of course, Daniel. With all of the strange things that have come through our Stargate, they would be negligent if they didn't. But," he held Daniel's gaze over the top of his glasses, "I don't want you to pin your hopes on the colonel's findings."

The muscles in Daniel's jaw clenched and unclenched; his hands grabbed at each other, fingers interlaced. "No – no – I get it." He swallowed thickly. "How could they be- be there – and here? It – it doesn't m-make sense."

"Beings visible only to you, popping in and out of sight within the SGC and here at the hospital? No, Daniel, I'm afraid it doesn't."

Daniel's eyes widened and narrowed as if he might will reality to snap back into focus around him. He shuddered. "No – no Stargate in my closet. No Goa'uld in Jack-"

"That's right, Daniel," MacKenzie nodded, making a note. "Very good." If the young man could verbalize the truth, if he could remain calm and reasonable even with out-of-control brain chemistry, perhaps any medications needed could be administered at a fairly low level. "Do you understand what I mean by the word schizophrenia?"

"Schizophrenia. Brain disorder characterized by withdrawal from reality, illogical patterns of thinking, delusions, hallucinations," his speech became faster and faster, his hands alternately smoothing the blanket in his lap and pinching at it, his voice breaking, "accompanied by emotional and be- behavioral disturbances –"

"That's right," MacKenzie gently interrupted, "that is the dictionary definition of the term. I want you to focus on the very first part of the explanation. It is a brain disorder – a disease – linked to hyper-dopamine syndrome. Your brain chemistry is not under your control," the doctor enunciated slowly, "so it is not an insult to your intelligence or a comment on your worth as a human being."

Daniel rubbed at his eyes, leaving two fingers of each hand atop his closed eyelids. "But it will keep me in here, ja- jailed, locked up, without my g-glasses or my clothes or, or my – my life –"

"For now. Just until we can stabilize your condition with the right combination of –"

"No – no," Daniel murmured, shaking his head, eyes still closed. "Not true."

"With the right combination of medications, Daniel," MacKenzie continued quietly, "there is every reason to believe that you will lead a long, productive life-"

"No – no – no – NO!"

Cadiz and Harris stepped closer.

"Daniel – please, look at me."

"Liar!"

MacKenzie leaned backward, frowning, and held up one hand to halt the two aides' movements. "What are you thinking, Daniel? Remember, I said that you can tell me anything."

"You – you're lying," Daniel seethed, opening bloodshot eyes to stare straight through MacKenzie's careful control. "Lying! They- they'll never let me out – out of here! They'll l-l-lock me up and th-throw away the key!"

Calm. Deliberate. MacKenzie knew he couldn't allow himself to escalate along with his patient. "That's simply not true -"

Sweat darkened the young man's hair and plastered it to his scalp. Both shaking hands rose to grip his head, squeezing, as if he could hold onto rational thought with sheer physical effort. "S-secrets! I know too many of their s-s-secrets! They'll never –"

"Daniel!" MacKenzie spoke sternly, trying to punch through the panic and paranoia, but his patient was too frenzied, trapped in a cycle of fear and denial. He set the clipboard down on the floor to free his hands. Rising slowly, he nodded towards Sergeant Harris. "Let's try 3 milligrams." He took one step towards Daniel's trembling figure. "Daniel? Doctor Jackson? Please try to calm yourself."

His chest heaving, Daniel scrambled backwards until his back hit the solid wall at the head of the bed. Knees drawn up, he muttered and moaned, his words unintelligible, his arms flailing wildly, head twisting back and forth.

"NO!"

MacKenzie reached out, but Daniel was off the bed and backed up against the treatment room door before he or either of the aides could react. "Daniel," he began again, nodding to Harris who stood behind his colleague, his actions with the vial and syringe hidden behind Airman Cadiz' broad back, "please, come back and sit down-"

"NO!" Wild, red-faced, and desperate to flee, the patient reached behind his back for the doorknob, clearly not willing to take his eyes from the closing figures. Frightening figures – threats. "NO! I – I won't stay here! L-locked up! J-just waiting for – for them!"

MacKenzie moved into Daniel's sight-line, intent on reaching the young man, or at the very least, distracting him from the nurse's approach. Standard practice was to lead the patient with a firm hand, giving him clear instructions that might cut through the noise and static his senses were battering against his mind. "Daniel. We don't want to hurt you, but I will sedate you if you can't calm down."

Teeth bared, Daniel opened his eyes impossibly wider and thrust backwards, hitting the metal door hard with his shoulders, hips, and head. He slammed both arms backwards, fists clenched, before shifting forward a few inches and hurling himself backwards again.

My God, the progression of the disease was horrifyingly rapid. Daniel was going to hurt himself, tear muscles, rupture skin – MacKenzie flinched as he smacked his head against the door once – twice – he'd crack his skull at this rate, if he didn't stroke out first with hypertension.

"Bare his arm, Airman," he ordered. They could not afford to be gentle any more.

"N- n – uh –"

Daniel spat, foam collecting at the corners of his mouth as he grunted incoherent syllables. Cadiz moved quickly, enveloping the patient in a bear hug, trapping his arms at his sides and dragging him away from the door. The aide was much bigger than Daniel, and trained to hold onto struggling patients without hurting them, but the archaeologist was desperate – out of control – so deeply wrapped up within his delusion that the pair lurched and heaved in an unholy dance, staggering towards the bed. Daniel wrenched his body this way and that, fixated on escape. Harris moved into position beside them, adjusting as quickly as he could to every fumbling movement, trying to drag Daniel's arm into position so that he could inject the medication into muscle.

As he felt the needle go in, Daniel shrieked, head back, the tendons in his neck standing out like thick cables. A moment later, just as Cadiz was shifting his grip, guiding the patient down to the bed with one strong arm around his waist, one hand gripping the back of his neck, Daniel twisted and used the only weapon available to him. Bright red blood erupted between his teeth as he bit down on the aide's bicep like a rabid dog.

Cadiz grunted, his own teeth clenched against a curse, but held on, allowing Harris the chance to withdraw the needle and step in to help.

Daniel seemed to deflate all at once, his chest heaving, eyes at half-mast, lips moving in some silent plea as he curled on his side. MacKenzie moved closer, his eyes darting between the smudge of blood on the door and the red line dripping down Daniel's chin. Dammit. This should not have happened. Daniel's descent was too abrupt, too rapid, even for schizophrenia's first explosive appearance. Or perhaps MacKenzie had just been too slow to react, too blinded by Daniel's intelligence, his reputation, to let himself believe a man like this could become violent. He shook his head. It was time to take off the kid gloves. It was time to take Doctor Daniel Jackson, genius scientist, discoverer of worlds, and diplomat to aliens out of the equation and deal with the very sick young man in front of him.

The doctor crouched down beside his patient as Cadiz moved backwards, arm cradled to his chest. "You should get that seen to, Airman. Get an update on your tetanus shot, as well."

He felt the airman retreat a single step, as if unwilling to leave his patient, as Harris methodically strapped the padded restraints around Daniel's wrists and ankles.

"Daniel? Doctor Jackson, can you hear me?"

No response. The haloperidol had taken effect. MacKenzie gently turned Daniel's head to the side in case of excess salivation, and took a look at the injury his patient had done to the back of his head.

"We're going to have to monitor him very closely – keep him heavily sedated until the anti-psychotics begin bringing his dopamine levels down."

Harris had already donned a set of gloves and was taking up gauze and a bottle of sterile water to clean the head wound. "Do you want him transferred to a Quiet Room?"

The doctor looked up, meeting the nurse's eyes. The Quiet Room was standard procedure for a violent patient. Heavily padded walls and floor made for a safe – if cold and uninviting – environment. "Not yet," MacKenzie finally answered. "Let's get him cleaned up and wait for the results of the meds."

"But, Sir-"

"I know, Sergeant. But, if we keep him sedated and monitored he shouldn't be able to hurt himself – or anyone else – here in the treatment room." Given the patient's level of violence, they would not be able to keep him restrained for long. For the moment, however, MacKenzie was not ready for Daniel Jackson to wake up in the Quiet Room environment. Alone.

"I'll remain with him, Sergeant Harris."

As long as it took. MacKenzie had made a promise – to Janet Frasier, to Colonel O'Neill, and to himself.


	3. Chapter 3

On mental illness: "Don't ask me those questions! Don't ask me what life means or how we know reality or why we have to suffer so much. Don't talk about how nothing feels real, how everything is coated with gelatin and shining like oil in the sun. I don't want to hear about the tiger in the corner or the Angel of Death or the phone calls from John the Baptist." ― Susanna Kaysen (_Girl, Interrupted_)

Chapter 3

They were coming. He knew they were coming. Felt it. Heard the footsteps – boots on the metal ramp, on the hard, concrete floor of the base. Dead eyes, hollow sockets in bleached skulls turned towards him – always him, always looking at Daniel. They knew, somehow, that only Daniel could see them. Could fight them. He would. He'd fight them! His friends – the SGC – Earth was counting on him. He couldn't – wouldn't – let them down.

Not flesh, not warm arms of muscle and blood, just the jagged bone of the dead all around him. Cold bone wrapped in the filthy shreds of regal robes all in tatters. Tattered – shattered – dying – dead. They wanted him. Wanted his life, his warmth, his alive-ness. He struck – again and again – felt the bone shatter and break – heard the squealing laughter echo –

"Daniel – Doctor Jackson!"

His eyes flew open. The monsters – the Goa'uld – gone. He'd fought them back again. He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and slumped backwards. His arms – he brought up his right hand to touch the aching muscle, the bruised skin, but another man was there, holding him. Dark eyes were wary, guarded. Not the dark eyes he knew – no lingering humor or frustration there – just solemn – stoic – watching him. Waiting.

He turned back to MacKenzie. Doctor. Psych doctor. He was crouched in front of Daniel, backlit by pure white. White coat not white enough to be camouflage. Light around him like a beacon – an aura. Daniel blinked away tears he couldn't feel. Frowned. A sob broke from his throat. Why? Why?

"Doctor MacKenzie?"

Whisper. He could only whisper. They might – they might hear. Wait. Who? Who was listening? Who was he afraid of? Terror lay in wait beneath Daniel's confusion.

"Yes, Daniel. It's me. Please calm down. We're trying to help you."

Help? Help with what? The arms around him loosened, dark eyes pulled backwards. Not too far. Not far enough. Daniel gathered himself, wrapped his arms around bent knees pulled in close and tight so they couldn't get away, and laid his head down. "Help me," he whispered. "Help me find –" Find what? Or was it who? Whom? A high-pitched laugh bubbled up, thrust itself out. "Find … "

"Yes, Daniel. We're going to help you find it."

He lifted his head – heavy – so heavy with thoughts squirming and wriggling, pounding fists from the inside, wanting out. "Find what?" He couldn't see. Blurry. Not through tears, though, tears were gone. But he couldn't see. He touched two fingers to his eyes. "Find – find my glasses?" Yes, he'd have to find his glasses before he could read – study – investigate. Find the dead Goa'uld. Find Jack –

"Jack – is Jack –" The Goa'uld had crawled up his arm, plunged into his neck. Daniel scrambled for purchase against the soft flooring. Tried to stand. Stumbled. Arms around him again.

"Colonel O'Neill is fine, Daniel. He's back at the SGC. He is not a Goa'uld."

Okay. Good. That's good. Daniel glanced up at the doctor again. He sounded … tired. Like he'd said that before. Told Daniel about Jack. The SGC. Why – why couldn't he – He brought his fists up to his temples and pushed. Push out the whirling, tumbling thoughts. Push out the strangeness – terrible images of blood and death – tortured faces screaming in pain – burning flesh – Sam and Teal'c, torn apart with jagged knives – Janet, eyes ripped out, held in her own hands – Jack, laughing, holding his guts and painting lines on the floor in bile and blood –

"Daniel – stay with me. Listen to my voice. They're delusions, Daniel. Whatever you're seeing is not real. Look at me. Focus on me."

He saw the doctor – MacKenzie – saw him there. Outside. Beyond. Inside was death and pain and horror. Closer. So close. He smashed his fists against his head. "Out-" he choked – "get them out – out!" He pummeled himself again. "Out!" He tried to shout – to scream. He heard a whimper. Barely him. Not Daniel at all.

Who?

His hand – wrenched away from his head, fingers flattened (bent – broken – torn away) against something warm. Cloth. Something.

"Feel my breathing, Daniel."

Another voice. Not him again. Not MacKenzie. Dark eyes. The wrong dark eyes looking at him. Insisting. Patient.

"That's right, can you feel my breathing? In. Out. In."

Daniel watched his hand against the man's chest. Simple. So simple. Of course he could feel it. Stupid question.

"I know – it's a stupid question, isn't it? Of course you can feel this."

Of course. He nodded sharply, watching the dark eyes watch him.

"Can you match your breathing to mine? In. Out."

He felt his heart slowing. Panting sounds faded. Whimpers died away. In. Out.

"There ya go, Daniel. There ya go. In. Out."

In. Out. In. Inside. Inside him. The dark eyes glowed, lips curved in a wicked grin. "Inside, Daniel. Infiltrate."

"No," he squirmed backwards but a wall there – soft and cold – pushed him back.

"C'mon, Daniel, you were doing so good –"

"No – no nonononono…" The teeth were bloody – the face – skull – dead – strands of flesh hanging –

"Dammit, I had him for a second, Doc-"

"… we'll try another milligram …"

Daniel wept.

~o~

The first round of anti-psychotics had been an abysmal failure.

MacKenzie closed his eyes and traced the dark purple knot at his collarbone through his shirt. He supposed it could have been worse. Knowing Daniel's off-world training and experience, his patient's bouts of violence could have led to broken bones and concussions rather than just deep tissue bruising and a single shallow bite. At least Daniel himself hadn't been hurt badly, beyond the initial head trauma. He was bruised, had managed to scratch and hit himself, pulled a shoulder muscle as he struggled.

Knowing how much worse it could have been did not give MacKenzie one moment of relief.

Whether it was the low-dosage of meds themselves, a worsening of Daniel's illness, or a combination of the two, they'd been forced to restrain him again. And, when his continued struggles threatened to do more damage than the soft cuffs prevented, MacKenzie had ordered the young man sedated. Again. And then placed in a Quiet Room.

He and Airman Cadiz had waited with Daniel, unwilling to let him awaken alone. Their presence had only seemed to agitate him further.

They needed to find the right mix of anti-psychotics, sedatives, and D2 inhibitors soon.

Sitting at his desk, MacKenzie poured over the test results, the EEGs, the blood panels and urinalysis. No matter what they tried, no matter how firmly he tried to talk his patient through his delusions, to get him to use the standard self-calming behaviors, or to respond with more than a few sentences of rational thought, Daniel was only getting worse.

He snatched up his phone before the second ring. "Yes?"

"How's Daniel?"

Only Colonel Jack O'Neill would think he didn't have to identify himself. Then again, he was obviously right - MacKenzie easily recognized the commanding voice, the pure steel there tempered with concern. He threw his glasses down on the desk and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.

"We're still trying to work out the appropriate level of-"

"Not what I asked you, Doc," O'Neill interrupted. Insistent. Impatient. Afraid.

"He's – not good, Colonel," MacKenzie admitted with a sigh. "He's severely agitated and combative and requires near constant sedation. I'm afraid it's going to be a long, hard road-"

"Well then, having a few friends visit shouldn't do him any more harm, should it?"

MacKenzie bit back an immediate denial. "I honestly don't know, Colonel." Admitting that, especially to someone like O'Neill, someone who already despised and belittled everything MacKenzie stood for, was not easy. "Daniel does not like people to get close to him. I believe the hallucinations he is experiencing are, to him, extremely threatening. He is also experiencing Pseudobulbar affect which manifests –"

A muffled growl. "English, Doc."

The doctor closed his eyes. "Daniel is suffering from cycles of out of control emotions, Colonel. They are intense and, frankly, extremely disturbing both to Daniel and to those witnessing them." Memories of Daniel's pale features wet with tears, or his mouth pulled back in a death's head-like grin as he was wracked with laughter refused to be banished by academic pigeon-holing. MacKenzie was sure he'd be seeing them again and again in his nightmares. He couldn't imagine how the sight would affect Daniel's family.

O'Neill's frustration was palpable. "I don't care if he's spinning in circles and clucking like a chicken, I'm not going to abandon my best friend out there without a friendly face in sight!"

"I understand your feelings on the matter," MacKenzie managed, his voice more level than he had any right to expect, "but I'm primarily concerned with _my patient_, and what is best for _him_." He leaped in again before O'Neill could recover from his pointed thrust. "Do you really think Daniel wants you to see him like this? So out of control – so vulnerable?" During his few lucid moments, Daniel was ashamed, horrified with his condition, and those, perhaps, were the saddest moments of all. When the man's brilliant mind grasped what was happening to him and he knew, for certain, there was nothing that could prevent his steep slide into madness. When the clouded blue eyes cleared, Daniel retreated, back pressed into a corner, face buried in his hands or against his knees.

A rough breath blew across the telephone line. "Listen, Doc, been there, done that. Daniel and I have seen each other at our worst – worse than our worst. Or don't you remember his little sarc problem last year?"

"This is quite different, Colonel. Medically, psychologically, physiologically – "

"And I. Don't. Care." O'Neill snapped the words out like bullets. "He needs us. He needs me. Someone who's not going to judge him. Daniel needs human contact."

MacKenzie sat up, eyes open and narrowed. "That is just what Daniel does not need right now, Colonel. When he is lucid he is trying to accept his state. He's coming to terms with the fact that he cannot trust what he sees or hears, that he cannot trust the only thing that he's had to rely on his entire life, the one thing that has kept him steady through so many former griefs. His mind. What you're suggesting, Colonel, physical touch – human touch, as you put it – is a threat. Every touch, every movement into his personal space is suspicious and unwelcome." And, when it is necessary, when medications must be given, when personal hygiene must be seen to – those were the moments when a violent reaction was assured. MacKenzie did not relish the times when a patient's illness made physical confrontation necessary, when he had to order his aides into a patient's close personal space, but, as a medical professional he was able to keep his emotional distance. Daniel's closest friend – his family? Who knew how such a reaction would affect them?

"He won't –"

"Don't try to tell me that it won't work that way with you, Colonel O'Neill. Or that he'll be different with you. I've heard that from the friends and families of my patients for years." He tapped two fingers on the files in front of him. "Daniel is very ill. You cannot talk him out of it – you cannot fight it or will it away."

In the silence of O'Neill's reaction MacKenzie could feel the military man's anger, the anger of a soldier with no one to target, no enemy to battle. The colonel's drive, the inherent stubbornness of the leader of Earth's primary off-world team would not allow him to rest while one of his charges suffered. And the comprehensive compassion of the man within the uniform suffered along with his good friend. "Colonel-" MacKenzie wanted to apologize.

"Doc."

The need – the sorrow filling up that one syllable stopped him.

"Doc. It's been three days. I need," O'Neill swallowed, "can I - we - just see him?"

MacKenzie couldn't help a fleeting smile as he glanced at the clock. Barely 42 hours had passed since Daniel had been admitted to Mental Health. But it was Thursday, and Daniel had been diagnosed on Tuesday. He shook his head – he'd never been able to understand Air Force time.

"Tomorrow, Colonel. You and your team can come tomorrow." He couldn't deny them. In good conscience, he should, but – damn it. Perhaps O'Neill was right. Perhaps MacKenzie could learn more about reaching Daniel's mind through the miasma of schizophrenia by watching his family interact with him.

"First thing in the morning," O'Neill replied in a rush.

"No – Daniel needs to have his morning evaluation and treatment, Colonel. You can come at 1100 hours." He pointed one finger in the air as if admonishing a child. "Not a moment sooner."

"Yes, sir!"

The colonel disconnected before MacKenzie could add any more restrictions. He chuckled and laid the receiver down carefully, one hand resting atop the black plastic. Daniel was lucky to have such a stubborn, tenacious friend. His face fell back into frowning contemplation. Lucky. No. In no way was Daniel Jackson lucky in this scenario. And, until MacKenzie could come up with a cocktail of medications that effectively battled the rising dopamine level within his brain, he would only get worse. He bent over the treatment notes and test results in front of him. As dry eyes flicked across the same skewed test results again and again the favorite phrase of his own Air Force instructor seemed to play on a loop within his mind.

"_Failure is not in my vocabulary."_

MacKenzie's vocabulary had expanded well beyond the normal since he'd joined the Stargate program. And he was very much afraid that his instructor had been wrong.


	4. Chapter 4

On mental illness: "Don't ask me those questions! Don't ask me what life means or how we know reality or why we have to suffer so much. Don't talk about how nothing feels real, how everything is coated with gelatin and shining like oil in the sun. I don't want to hear about the tiger in the corner or the Angel of Death or the phone calls from John the Baptist." ― Susanna Kaysen (_Girl, Interrupted_)

Chapter 4

"Is Daniel Jackson no better, O'Neill?"

Jack let go of the death-grip he still had on the phone and glanced up at the man in the doorway. "No, T. I think 'no better' would be an understatement at this point."

If it was possible for a Jaffa to fidget nervously, Teal'c was doing it. He shuffled forward, grimaced, twisted to the right and then finally turned to the wall, eyes roaming over the few framed orders and certificates hung there. Jack wondered if the Jaffa actually saw anything in front of him, or if a certain teammate's tortured features were as insistently present in Teal'c's attention as they were in Jack's. One expressive eyebrow flicked up and down and Jack realized the few personal photos he'd tucked in here and there behind wires and against glass had caught his friend's eye. He sat back slowly in his chair, unwilling to intrude.

Photographs had been something new to the Jaffa. Even with all of the Goa'uld's technology, their weapons systems and crystal powered FTL drives, the art of printed photography had never developed. It made a kind of sense, Jack figured. Goa'uld had access to perfect genetic memory – what did they need with scrapbooks and framed snapshots? And the arts didn't exactly flourish under the boot of totalitarian tyrants, so it wasn't any wonder that repressed slaves like the Jaffa and humans didn't pose for family albums.

But once Daniel had shown Teal'c his only photograph of Sha're – something Jack had found on the disposable camera Kawalsky had always tucked into his vest - the Jaffa had been hooked. And not just with personal photos. Television. Movies. Old Air Force filmstrips Jack hadn't seen since his own academy days. Sometimes he would find Teal'c down in Daniel's office, quiet as a mouse, just leafing through book after book, staring at the pictures. Some of it had definitely helped acclimatize the guy to Earth's history and culture, but most of it, Jack knew, had been absorbed into that empty part of Teal'c's soul that had never been allowed to seek out beauty or art or mementos of friendship and family. Jack's jaw clenched as he let his gaze rest on each photograph and sternly slapped down the fear that these snapshots might be his last memories of Daniel's friendship.

Finally, Teal'c stopped, one hand reaching towards a snapshot of SG-1. Someone had printed it from the standard security footage in the 'gate room after their mission to the natives of PS-whatever who had insisted the team wear the 'traditional festive garments' for their negotiations. Jack tilted his head at the memory. Teal'c had pulled off the feathers and sarong as if a true warrior wore them every day under his armor. Carter looked like a very, very angry Vegas showgirl. With attitude. And a weapon. Jack himself had gone for the 'I can pull this off in my sleep' brash and bold approach.

And Daniel? A chuckle tried to build behind Jack's ribcage. Daniel had looked like a very pretty drag queen with just a hint of five o'clock shadow.

Teal'c's hand dropped away from the photo before it made contact. "Daniel Jackson is a most resilient man. He has been much afflicted in his short life."

Jack figured the big guy wasn't talking about the feathers. "That would be an understatement."

"And yet he is an able teammate. Wise and strong." Teal'c shifted, hands behind his back, to stand before each photo for a moment before moving on. "Giving back to others all he has learned."

Jack followed his friend's movements, his tight shoulders, the way his jaw looked tense enough to snap and he listened for meaning beneath the warrior's words.

"He has given me forgiveness. A friendship unlooked for and unexpected."

Back then Teal'c had been the snake-infested alien who had kidnapped Daniel's wife and turned her over to Apophis for a lifetime of slavery. Jack shook his head. The depth of Daniel's compassion never ceased to amaze. He stiffened as Teal'c suddenly turned towards him, his eyes shadowed.

"In my small experience, I have found Daniel Jackson to be unique among the Tau'ri. Tell me if this is so, O'Neill."

"Ah," Jack laced his fingers together on his desk, mouth pulled to one side, "well, I don't hang around in libraries and universities too much, so I guess, I mean," Jack squirmed, "there could be, theoretically …" He sighed. "Yeah, I think our Daniel's pretty unique, T. One of a kind," he admitted.

Teal'c's mouth tightened. "I have never known humans who travel through the Stargate to be driven mad by its use. Is this uniqueness of Daniel Jackson what has made him vulnerable to this sort of … damage?"

Jack opened his mouth to reply and then shut it. Was it? Was Daniel's innate openness to blame? His mental flexibility? "Daniel's not weak," he found himself saying, his voice betraying the anger that sat like a pool of burning lava in his gut.

"I did not claim that he was," Teal'c answered evenly. "Only true strength can weather the storms so frequent in Daniel Jackson's life."

"I know, I know." Jack stretched and bent his fingers, only now realizing how rigid his grip had been. "Teal'c, I wish I had answers – any answers – at this point. I don't know if you've realized this," he waved one hand back and forth aimlessly, "but I'm not too good at this shit."

"Which 'shit' O'Neill?"

Jack's hand came up to swirl in circles next to his head. "You know, psychological, mental, emotional shit. If I can't shoot it, or yell at it, or blow it up, or give it a beer and a manly punch on the arm, well …" he let the words trickle off to their obvious conclusion. Helpless. Damn, he hated feeling helpless.

Teal'c stepped closer. "You degrade yourself in error, O'Neill."

"Just – just stop." Frustration made his voice sharp and jagged. "I don't need a pep talk, T."

His teammate acknowledged him with that sort of sideways nod that looked a heck of a lot like a bow. "I know. It is Daniel Jackson who requires our attention. All of our attention. It is both our right and our responsibility as his family, is it not?" He continued before Jack could respond. "And yet he has been taken from us and hidden away 'for his own good,' where we cannot reach him." The muscles in Teal'c's arms bulged as he crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes closed to a suspicious half-mast. "This I do not understand."

"Well, good news, then," Jack stood. "I was just coming down to find you and Carter to tell you we're going to visit him tomorrow."

"That is indeed good news. Major Carter has found this illness of our teammate as unsettling as I."

"Yeah, she's buried herself in analysis of wormholes and interference whosits and their effects on the blah blah mind-body blah blah. She and Doc Frasier are knee deep in read-outs and brain scans and what-not." Jack rubbed at his arms. "The atmosphere is decidedly chilly down there."

Teal'c fell in behind Jack as he moved towards the door. "Major Carter blames Doctor Frasier for Daniel Jackson's imprisonment."

"No kidding."

"Do you, also, O'Neill?"

Jack's steps slowed as he turned the situation over and over in his mind. Daniel lying on an infirmary cot, white as a sheet, insisting he'd seen a Stargate in his closet. Playing chess, just like any other day. And then bursting into action, attacking. Shrieking. Fighting him with desperate strength. Frasier's tearful gaze. MacKenzie's stern admission of guilt.

"I don't know," he finally admitted. "I guess I'd like to blame her. Or that quack, MacKenzie. There's been some pretty strange crap that's come in through the Stargate, Teal'c. Body swapping. Brainwashing. Crystals that take our worst memories and –" he couldn't finish that thought. "I'm not sure that playing the blame game is going to be real useful right now."

"Are we not at fault, O'Neill? For not shielding out brother from harm?"

Jack moved down the hallway towards the elevator, refusing to meet his teammate's eyes. Blame. Yeah, Jack blamed himself. He should have kept Daniel tied to his desk where his brain could be picked in relative safely rather than pushed to get him assigned to SG-1. Every time Daniel was injured or hurt, that old ditty raised its head. But, every time, when Daniel recovered, the guy came back stronger than ever, and Jack knew that restricting him to base would be a horrible punishment. He turned abruptly, guilt swamping him. "How, T? How was I, how were we supposed to protect him from this?" He plunged one finger into Teal'c's chest. "Tell me that!"

Teal'c gazed down at the offending digit and then trapped Jack's heated gaze with his own. "I do not blame you, O'Neill," he finally murmured. "I only speak as I feel. And I feel that I would like nothing more than to protect my friend – my brother – from fear and pain. And from the loneliness of his imprisonment that certainly must be as hurtful as his disease."

Jack slid his card through the reader and waited silently for the elevator, hoping that Teal'c had come to the end of his awkward insights for the day. Images of Daniel, abandoned to doctors and needles and the lonely horror of a disintegrating mind while Jack and the rest of the team went about their lives – ate and slept and laughed and explored the universe. No. Not going to happen. If schizophrenia was really the only answer, if MacKenzie and Frasier were right, then the damned treatment should be working. And if MacKenzie couldn't show that his 'theory' was proven – that the meds were helping - by tomorrow, Jack was going to petition the general to get Daniel transferred back. And then Jack was going to find a damn answer – Tok'ra, Tollan, or sarcophagus, he didn't care.

He banged his fist once on the concrete wall. Daniel was not going to be left to rot in a padded cell – not on Jack's watch.

~o~

At night – at least he assumed it was night – the walls didn't glow so brightly with accusations. The floor didn't threaten to tilt from beneath his feet, sliding him face first into arms that always seemed too thin, too imprisoning. Like the bars of a cell. No, at night the lights dimmed, and the voices only murmured. At night Daniel lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, one knee bent, one aching arm across his chest. It felt good, that posture – it felt right and comforting, like something from home.

They didn't come for him at night. Once the one with dark eyes and the one with wider shoulders pushed him down and sent their medicines deep into his veins, he could rest. At least for a little while. He knew they were still there – hovering – just outside the door or behind the shadows in the corners of his room. He knew they could slip between one moment and another, in hiding, whispering, or within inches of his face, screaming death and blood. But at least at night they didn't touch him. They didn't pull him into their world, into the Stargate, or force him to fight with every muscle, every ounce of fear.

Maybe it was that at night, Daniel didn't care.

He turned his face to the wall, just inches away. He stayed close to the walls, surfing, circling, as he came to consciousness, as he rose up through the mists and fogs and swirling colors and sounds that surrounded him. The center, the open, blank, vulnerable center of the room was too much like the flat plane of the sea; a still, icy pond that sought to lure him to take one step and then another until, once it cracked, he would fall down forever, out of reach of any shore.

Maybe that would be best. Maybe he should go, take that step, that plunge, and let the waters part beneath his feet and close, again, over his head until he was gone. Used up. Voices and threats and screams finally silent.

_Come on, Danny, you're not a quitter._

"Go away, Jack." Daniel closed his eyes, exhaustion dragging his body straight down until it felt he weighed thousands of pounds. His voice was rough and thin, quavering.

_Why, you afraid to face me?_

"Not allowed to be afraid. Not allowed to be weak. You said – you taught me. Fight. Shoot. Kill. Kill the Goa'uld."

_That's better. You've gotta fight, Daniel. Fight the Goa'uld. We can't do it without you._

Bubbles in his chest, they boiled up his throat and burst in the air as laughter – choking, sobbing laughter. "Too late – too late –"

The voice faded, slipping away between the cracks_. No place around here for a quitter._

"No – wait!" Daniel struggled upright against the weight on his chest, the chains that held his arms and legs trapped against the floor. "Jack! Don't leave – don't leave –" sobbing now, weeping hot tears of rage and grief, "don't leave me here!"

He waited, trembling, propped against the wall, his fists held high. "See? I can fight – I can fight, Jack!"

_You cannot fight us. We come. We enter._

"No!" Not them. Not now. "No! I won't let you!" Night time. Wasn't night time safe? Wasn't he allowed to sleep?

_No one is safe. Not you. Not your friends._

Teeth clenched, Daniel swallowed his fear. "Stay away – keep away from my friends!"

_They will be the first to die._

"No! Jack! Jack, come back! Help me!" He struck out, aimlessly, turning to pummel the air, to find them, find anything. He hurled himself against the wall, the floor, backed into a corner, eyes open wide, mouth open, panting. His panic pounded in his chest, drummed loud in his head until it was all he could hear. He felt himself slipping, adrenaline crashing. "Help me!" he pleaded. "Please … please …"

The dark eyes. Wide shoulders. Pain. Darkness. "Help me," he repeated silently, eyes closed. Help.


	5. Chapter 5

On mental illness: "Don't ask me those questions! Don't ask me what life means or how we know reality or why we have to suffer so much. Don't talk about how nothing feels real, how everything is coated with gelatin and shining like oil in the sun. I don't want to hear about the tiger in the corner or the Angel of Death or the phone calls from John the Baptist." ― Susanna Kaysen (_Girl, Interrupted_)

Chapter 5

The ride to Mental Health was quiet. Carter had yammered on and on to them last night about frequencies and stellar radiation and brain waves but even a non-science type like Jack could hear the complete lack of answers under all the techno-babble. Frasier had been subdued, feeling the sharp barbs of Carter's stares and responding with carefully measured tones. She had begun running brain scans on the most active off-world teams – at least the ones that were on base at the time – and had also come up with bupkis.

All the talk just fueled that volcano in Jack's gut.

Why Daniel? Why now? And why weren't the meds working? Why couldn't he get anyone to answer those questions? Oh, he had questions all right. A whole boatload of them for Frasier and MacKenzie and any other quack they sent his way. Questions the lot of them should already be asking themselves if they weren't so enamored of their own theories based on one – ONE – nutjob that just happened to implode all over his team and some innocent off-world humans. No, Jack O'Neill was no scientist – thank God – but he knew the scientific method as well as anyone. Those middle school science projects were burned into his mind like a solar eclipse on unprotected retinas. Problem. Question. Hypothesis. Experiment. Data Analysis. And then – and only then – could you claim to have any sort of answer. And one test subject was completely worthless.

No, the cause and effect just didn't add up. Daniel didn't go nuts after the sarc withdrawal – he was his own sweet salient self. A little older and wiser for the experience, sure, but he wasn't frothing at the mouth or seeing creepy crawlies on the ceiling. He didn't slide into depression after Hathor – didn't sit alone in his room weeping and brooding. No, the guy admitted what happened in front of the whole team and then he and Jack had gotten legendarily drunk and dealt with it.

So, Jack re-echoed inside his own skull, why now? Why so suddenly after this particular mission? Something didn't make sense. The doctors might all look at him with sad eyes and shake their heads and talk about first onset and psychotic breaks, but what he really needed – what they all really needed – was to open those highly vaunted scientific minds just a crack and get cracking on other possibilities.

Damned narrow minded … he jerked the wheel and barreled into the parking lot of Mental Health, waving his credentials at the armed airman on guard. What they needed was a mind that could take the practical and the problematic and the speculative and mesh it all together, to take one giant step outside the box and look around.

What they needed was Daniel.

Jack had to get through to him. Somehow, someway, he had to get through. He was very afraid that, without Daniel's help, they might not ever find an answer.

~o~

"What the hell was that?"

Colonel O'Neill, chest thrust forward and eyes matte-black in anger, placed himself squarely in MacKenzie's space. Back pressed against the door to Daniel's Quiet Room, the doctor nodded at Cadiz and Harris, assuring them that the officer was not a threat.

"Colonel, we can talk in my office-"

"We can talk right the hell, now, MacKenzie! What were these goons doing to Daniel?"

"No." MacKenzie held one hand up in front of him, making sure his stance and his tone told O'Neill that he'd brook no argument. "We will not stand here shouting outside Daniel's door, antagonizing my patient any further. I warned you that this visit might not go as you wished. Now you and your team," he glanced towards Major Carter's tear-filled eyes and Teal'c's perplexed frown, "can come to my office, or you can leave the hospital. Those are your only choices."

O'Neill's features solidified to granite, his shoulders locked back and his arms tensed as if ready to reach for a weapon.

"Colonel."

Major Carter's quiet plea broke O'Neill's ice-cold control.

MacKenzie didn't wait. He moved forward, arm extended. "This way, please. My office is just down the hall." He prayed they would follow.

It turned out he didn't have to wonder for long. O'Neill practically stepped on MacKenzie's heels, and he found himself hurrying his pace as if shepherded along by a particularly ferocious sheepdog. Once within his office, he was quick to retreat behind his desk, putting at least that much of a roadblock between him and Daniel Jackson's fiercely protective team.

"Please sit down," MacKenzie started, only to be waved off by O'Neill's frustrated gesture.

"I want some answers, _Doctor_," the colonel snarled. "And I want them now. You've had Daniel under your thumb for three days and it looks to me, an untrained, un-doctored observer, that nothing you've done has done anything to help him. In fact, he's a hell of a lot worse!"

Doubts that had begun to flick red warning lights in the back of MacKenzie's brain again tried to get his attention, but he quashed them ruthlessly. This was no place for waffling, for appearing anything less than positively convinced about his patient's diagnosis and treatment. Speaking to O'Neill on the phone was nothing like facing the entirety of SG-1 – he'd noticed that during that last, less than useful, briefing before Daniel Jackson broke down once and for all. Between O'Neill's surly determination, Samantha Carter's intelligence and charisma, and Teal'c's intimidating bearing, MacKenzie would need to gather all of his wits, experience, and strategies in order to come out on top.

He lowered himself into his chair and folded his hands together in his lap. "The treatment of schizophrenia is still largely an art more than it is a science, Colonel. There is no tried and true process, no instant cure –"

O'Neill placed both hands on MacKenzie's desk and loomed over him. "Bull. Shit."

Carter shifted forward. "Colonel-"

"Don't say it, Major," O'Neill spit out over his shoulder while still spearing MacKenzie in place with an unwavering stare. "Doctor Jackson does not seem – to my admittedly uneducated and yet skeptical eye – to be responding to any of your treatments, _Doctor_. In fact, he appears to be getting worse. Rapidly." He cocked his head in keeping with the mock-lightheartedness of his speech. "True or false?"

"I've tried to explain –"

"Explain how Daniel has to be stuck here for his own good while you and your goons force-feed him on medicines that do nothing? I saw the damned bruises!"

MacKenzie took a long breath. "Daniel fights, Colonel. As I told you over the phone last night, he lashes out at anyone or anything that invades his personal space."

"Oh, and your guys can't help but get in a few hits of their own when they get a chance?"

His own rising anger wouldn't help here – it would only escalate this confrontation into something that they all would regret. O'Neill was a soldier – he wanted something – or someone – to fight. MacKenzie thought back to Daniel's exam this morning, his mumbled words about fighting, about how 'Jack wanted him to fight.' The doctor had taken this as perhaps a step in the right direction – an admission that Daniel wanted to fight his illness – wanted to struggle through the hallucinations back into reality.

Whatever it had meant, he knew, without a doubt, that it was this relationship – Jack O'Neill and Daniel Jackson – that lay at the heart of the young man's definition of self. This friendship – this familial bond – lay at the bedrock of Daniel's existence. Nothing else could explain either Daniel's continual calls for the colonel's help, or O'Neill's protective fury. If MacKenzie could only convince O'Neill of the truth – of his patient's only hope residing in correct treatment of his illness – the colonel could play a huge part of Daniel's recovery.

Time to take a new tack.

"I'm sure you don't actually mean that, Colonel." MacKenzie tilted his head down, eyes narrowing at Dr. Carter on O'Neill's right. "In fact, you experienced something of Daniel's volatility yourselves, didn't you?"

Pale and trembling, Carter had her arms crossed over her chest protectively – an extremely uncomfortable and defensive posture. She glanced towards O'Neill's rigid frame. "I don't – he didn't-" She shook her head. "I'm sure Daniel didn't intend to hurt me."

"Of course he didn't!" O'Neill spat. "Daniel would never –"

"O'Neill- is that not the point Doctor MacKenzie is making?"

The Jaffa's deep voice flowed like syrup across the fear and frustration at the heart of O'Neill's outburst. MacKenzie sat back, fingers steepled together at his chin.

O'Neill stood, twisting to face his teammate. "What?"

MacKenzie had little experience with Teal'c, had made few inroads with his requests to gain direct sessions with Earth's alien ally. But, at the same time, he had never seen the Jaffa so bewildered, so unfocused – that sense of calm that had always seemed to envelop Teal'c cast aside. This situation with his teammate disturbed the warrior – as coming face to face with mental illness often did. Perhaps Teal'c was not so far from human after all.

"Daniel Jackson would never intentionally bring harm to any of his friends. In fact," Teal'c caught his hands together behind his back, "I have known Daniel Jackson to refuse to let harm come to anyone lightly, whether friend or enemy. Except for the Goa'uld, or those who directly threaten his friends – his family," Teal'c allowed with a nod.

"Damn straight," O'Neill muttered.

"Unless," Teal'c hurried to continue, "unless his kalash – his soul – is deeply troubled." He turned towards MacKenzie. "This is a sickness of the soul, is it not?"

"That is … one way to put it, Teal'c," MacKenzie allowed. "We would define it as a sickness of the mind, but I understand your point. As I hope you do mine, Colonel O'Neill." He focused on the team's leader once again.

He watched fleeting emotions chase themselves across O'Neill's face, his jaw clenched as if he could bite off any genuine sentiment, any words of loss or pain. "Just tell me this, Doc," he finally sighed. "Is Daniel getting better?"

"Not yet," MacKenzie shook his head.

"Then tell me your timetable. Explain to me how long we're going to test this little theory of yours about Daniel's so-called illness before you decide to open your eyes to other possibilities?" O'Neill held up his left arm and tapped his watch dramatically with his right hand. "You're on the clock, here, and my best friend is lying – alone - in a padded cell watching what's left of his mind scamper away from him."

MacKenzie nodded. "I wish I could give you an answer to that, Colonel. But schizophrenia is a notoriously difficult disease to pin down. There are many different treatments, combinations of sedatives, D2 inhibitors, et cetera. I am surprised that Daniel hasn't responded positively yet – _yet_," he emphasized, "but he will. Eventually." Of course he would. They just needed more time.

"In other words," Carter stepped forward, "you and Doctor Frasier intend to keep Daniel here. Keep medicating him. Against his will."

"Even though it does not appear to be helping Daniel Jackson in any way," Teal'c added.

MacKenzie did not squirm in his chair. These lay-people had no idea what they were talking about. "The DSM-IV outlines a necessary diagnostic period of at least six months – "

"Six months! If you think we're going to let you mess around with Daniel's brain for six months –"

"There is simply no other way to absolutely determine causality, Colonel. For Daniel's own good –"

The colonel's tight smile was anything but amiable. "It's been my experience," he stuck his hands on his hips, "that when someone tells me that something is 'for my own good,' I should fire first and ask questions later." He pointed his finger like a gun at MacKenzie's chest. "And you, Doc, are in my sites like you wouldn't believe."

"What would you have me do, Colonel?" The doctor leaned forward, the anger he'd been keeping a tight rein on slipping past his control. "Release Daniel into your custody? Allow you to take him home and keep him under your supervision until this … unknown, untreated problem just goes away?"

"You can still treat him at the base," O'Neill retorted evenly.

"Yes, because that worked so well before," MacKenzie snapped.

Empty seconds ticked by as the colonel's dark eyes narrowed dangerously.

MacKenzie held up one hand in apology, "Colonel, I-"

"Stop."

All eyes turned towards Teal'c.

"This is not aiding our brother. It dishonors Daniel Jackson."

"T- I'm just trying to get Danny back where he belongs."

The doctor heard the desperation beneath the warrior's harshness – the way his voice trembled on Daniel's name. His gaze swept back towards Carter. There – behind the intelligence and self-control that defined this woman lay the deep well of compassion – of love – she obviously had for her stricken teammate. And Colonel O'Neill … Well, the colonel was clearly the father of this chosen family. The protector. The leader. And he had no idea what to do.

"There is another way, Colonel." MacKenzie's eyebrows rose as he heard his own voice speaking. He'd never accepted any kind of time constraint from a patient's family before. He huffed out a frustrated breath. "If a patient begins to respond to treatment for schizophrenia, then the diagnosis can be made within one month rather than waiting for the entire six month period to pass."

The colonel shook his head. "You're telling me you want to play this guessing game with Daniel's sanity – throw together some kind of medieval cocktail of potions to try on my friend for a month?" He snorted. "I'll give you a week."

MacKenzie bit back on his frustration and eyed the senior officer up and down. O'Neill was second in command of the Stargate program. This man had General Hammond's ear and Doctor Frasier's guilty conscience in the palm of his hand. If anyone could convince them …

Fine. For Daniel Jackson's sake he'd do it. Prove to O'Neill once and for all that his patient was indeed where he belongs. He was confident Daniel would respond, that very soon they would hit on the correct drugs and dosages. Haloperidol should have helped with the positive symptoms, but Clozapine was considered a 'wonder drug' by many – MacKenzie mentally crossed off the safe, careful increases he'd scheduled for Daniel. "Very well, Colonel. One week from today – if nothing has changed, if neither Daniel's positive nor negative symptoms have been alleviated by treatment we will revisit this discussion in one week."

O'Neill shook his head. "You've already had three days." He squinted in mock deliberation. "I'll be generous and give you three more."

"Colonel." The man was bluffing.

"Take it or leave it." O'Neill looked right and left at his teammates. "Right, guys? Hammond would love to get Daniel back to the base."

Bluff or not, the three members of SG-1 stood stolidly before his desk – united in mind and intentions.

MacKenzie shrugged. It didn't matter. Three days or seven days, Daniel would respond. "Very well. I'll accelerate the treatment, change his drug regimen." And when the doctor had test results in black and white and a calmer, more controlled patient to show the Colonel and the General, then they would understand. Then he would be able to ease off and allow his patient's body and mind to acclimate to the drugs in his system.

"You will do our brother no harm." Teal'c glared at him.

"If you want results, I will give you results. And, no, the treatment will do no lasting damage to Daniel. He'll suffer some side-effects, as he would with any new therapy - but the treatment will definitively rule out any other possibility." The doctor peered at each member of SG-1 through slitted eyes. "That is what you want, isn't it?"

"What I want –" O'Neill ran one hand over his face, barking a laugh, "what I want is to wake up and find out this has all been a nightmare. But, I guess I'm going to have to settle for this."

MacKenzie began to rise from his chair, only to fall back into it abruptly as O'Neill pointed his finger menacingly.

"Uh-uh. Not so fast."

He sighed. "Yes, Colonel?"

"Yeah, just so you know. One of us," his hand waved back and forth between his teammates, "is going to be here every day to visit. And no more of that, 'don't get too close, don't touch him, you're too threatening crap.'" O'Neill stepped in close to MacKenzie's desk and lowered his voice. "You see, Daniel? He's family. And I'm not going to treat him like he isn't just because you've got him locked up in here. Capisce?"

"As long as you understand the almost certain consequences, Colonel."

O'Neill's smile was smug. "Oh, you bet I do. One of them – the biggest one in my humble opinion – is that Daniel might just realize he's not alone. That we will never, ever, abandon him."

As O'Neill and Carter moved towards the door, Teal'c loomed over the doctor's desk alarmingly.

"Indeed."


	6. Chapter 6

On mental illness: "Don't ask me those questions! Don't ask me what life means or how we know reality or why we have to suffer so much. Don't talk about how nothing feels real, how everything is coated with gelatin and shining like oil in the sun. I don't want to hear about the tiger in the corner or the Angel of Death or the phone calls from John the Baptist." ― Susanna Kaysen (_Girl, Interrupted_)

Chapter 6

Colors swirled through Daniel's black oblivion. Muted purples and greens, flaming oranges bursting in showers of sparks that crackled and fizzed like fireworks. Columns of gold, carved hieroglyphs dancing along their lengths, rose to tower over him, curving down down down to crush him, bury him, their black markings coming closer and closer, growing larger, sharper, until they struck him, slicing his flesh, leaving red, tearing wounds that bled bright blue droplets.

"_It is an ancient Goa'uld design."_

Teal'c was there, tattered robes falling around his pallid flesh all stretched and withered against his bones. No eyes. Just deep black holes full of nothing.

"I'm sorry," Daniel gasped. "I didn't know-"

An old man lunged between them, long grey hair matted, one eye drooping, his hands shaking with furious glee. _"You have delivered me to the vile Goa'uld so that I may destroy it."_

"I didn't – no – you're dead –" Daniel crossed his arms over his chest, holding on tight as tremors raced through him, shaking him so hard his teeth sounded like dice in a marble cup. "Or maybe I'm dead."

"_Yes, weapons to fight the Goa'uld!"_

Machello's face began to melt, skin falling in runny pools down his robes to splatter against the floor. When Daniel looked up, it was his own face he saw. His hair was too long, falling in eyes bright with tears. _"I will kill them all - all the Goa'uld – forever. They took my wife. My wife."_

His chest echoed beneath his crossed arms and Daniel reached up to touch and feel his own lips to see if he was the one speaking. "No – _my_ wife – my Sha're –"

One skeletal finger poked at his chest until a bright red stain bloomed against the white scrubs. It picked at his skin, pulling it away in big chunks. _"Mine. My wife – my life. Mine."_

"No!"

Machello clutched Daniel's torn flesh in both hands, pressing it against his face, his hands. _"You are nothing! A tool. A device. An invention. My inventions will find them, wherever they hide – infiltrate – destroy –"_

Daniel's pain was ragged nails in his throat, burning wires in place of nerves. Blood flowed and spattered; red, blue. Hot and bright. Cold and dead. Hot and cold raced through him, knocking his legs from beneath him. He crouched, afraid, huddling beneath the moldy robes, hiding from the madman and his mad inventions.

"Jack – Teal'c – help me –"

Darkness swirled around the edges, laughing and gurgling. The floor shook – concrete and metal – as the Stargate turned above him. The footsteps were familiar now. Coming closer. Machello's thin sandals flapping against the concrete floor. Daniel hid his face in his bent knees, hands over his ears. Not real. It wasn't real. Machello was dead and gone, his inventions locked away at Area 51. Inventions … to kill the Goa'uld.

Daniel's eyes flipped open to the blazing white of the Mental Health Quiet Room. Machello. Genius inventor. Madman. Obsessed with avenging himself, his wife. He blinked away the remnants of the dream, levering himself up to sit, his back against the padded wall. Tired. He was so tired. Arms and legs ached, muscles quivered. He looked down, his gaze touching on the dark purple imprint of a hand around his ankle. Where he'd been held down. Restrained. Because he'd fought – fought them. MacKenzie. The aides. Jack.

His thoughts were sluggish, lumbering in his skull, aimless. His elbow jerked. A muscle in his cheek jumped. He remembered something. A voice. "We'll try another 5 milligrams …" Daniel raised one trembling hand, pressed one finger into the injection site. It hurt.

Tilting his head back against the soft wall, he bit at his lip, trying to remember. The Linvris. Machello. Teal'c. MacKenzie. Jack. His memory looped, slowed, sank beneath black waves.

Daniel jerked his head up. "No!" He struggled with legs and arms that refused to listen to his commands. Flopping sideways, one shaking arm holding him inches above the padded floor, he gritted his teeth. "No. No. No more sleep. No time." No time. Teal'c was … Teal'c … Machello.

He felt something cool against his cheek. Soothing. Crossing his arms over his chest, Daniel breathed out a long sigh. Too tired. Just a few more minutes and he'd rise. Get up, put on his boots, get some coffee by the fire. Relieve Jack. It was time for his watch.

Drugged sleep curled over him, blanketing him in whispers, in memories. Friends' faces. The hot sand of Abydos. The smell of parchment. It was okay to sleep now. He was okay. Machello was dead and he was going to be okay.

He was Daniel Jackson. And he knew the answer.

~o~

Jack glanced across the elevator towards his 2IC. The ride back to base had been quiet, so quiet he could practically hear the wheels spinning in Carter's head and the steam whistling from a certain Jaffa's ears. He'd been waiting for some backlash, for either of them to call him on his high-handed demands. It was crazy. Crazier than Stargates in the closet or invisible corpses traipsing around the VIP rooms. You couldn't heal either minds or bodies by yelling commands or firing off ultimatums. Nope. A lot of things in Jack's life would have been different if that had worked. He turned his head, features flattening into a frozen mask that had been part of his uniform for years after – after – he swallowed familiar sorrow.

"Do you really think MacKenzie can come up with something in three days, Colonel?"

"I don't know, Carter." Jack scratched at the elevator control panel with the edge of his keycard. "I'm not pretending to be an expert in insanity – except for my very own brand. But I don't mind lighting a little fire under MacKenzie's ass." The doors opened on Level 11 and Jack strode out, leaving his teammates to catch up.

He slapped his ID and palm down on the security pad. "The guy is way too comfortable calling all the shots, shoving Daniel back behind padded walls, tucked away in MacKenzie's private hell of psychiatric gobblydegook."

Carter was hot on his heels. "Yes, sir. But Daniel - he just seemed so – so lost."

They stood at the doors of the lower elevator, staring at each other, neither one of them willing to admit that they were completely out of their depth for very different reasons. Carter because she'd never met a puzzle she couldn't crack, and Jack because … well, this was Daniel. The geek who'd thrown himself in front of a staff blast to save him when Jack was a suicidal robot bent on taking as much of the world as he could down with him.

Jack slid his keycard through the slot and turned back impatiently. "Teal'c! You coming?"

The Jaffa's steps were slow, his skin almost ashen.

"Hey," Jack stepped up to his shoulder. "You okay, big guy?"

Wide dark eyes turned to him – solemn, confused. "I must kelnoreem, O'Neill. Daniel Jackson's illness disturbs me greatly. Even the symbiote within me is unsettled."

Jack frowned, only keeping himself from taking a step backward by sheer stubbornness. "Ah, that's … probably not good, I'm guessing." His lips twisted into a smile. "Who knew junior there had such a thing for Daniel, huh?"

"Perhaps it senses my own agitation." Teal'c walked slowly towards where Carter was holding the elevator doors open. "Since coming to your world, I have found very little that Doctor Frasier has not been able to heal, even though humans – especially those on SG-1 –" he raised an eyebrow at his teammates, "seem particularly … breakable."

"Daniel's not broken, T," Jack assured him with a pat on the arm, "he just a little bruised. Once we figure out what's really going on he'll bounce back, just you wait and see. And what _you_ need is a good, sweaty workout." Turning towards his second, he jerked his chin towards the control pad. "21, Carter. I think we could all use a little time beating up on some unsuspecting punching bags. Or, maybe Marines." And, if he happened to imagine MacKenzie's face on his opponent, well, no one had to know. He rubbed his hands together. "And then it will be time to implement Plan Get Daniel Home." Knowing how Hammond felt about his prize civilian, Jack expected complete approval.

What he didn't expect was for Teal'c to collapse as soon as the elevator doors opened.

~o~

MacKenzie narrowed his eyes at the young man pacing before him. The agitation was there, yes. Blue eyes too bright, flicking around the room as if he could see things the others could not. He was still violent, striking out against the wall behind him, his movements almost spastic. But, still, there was something different. Could Daniel be responding to the new treatment? Already? He frowned. He'd like to believe so, believe the proof O'Neill had demanded would be this easy to provide.

"Look, Doctor, I know you probably hear this from your patients all the time, but I think I'm cured."

"You're right, I hear it all the time." MacKenzie tilted his head, examining his patient closely. "I'm afraid it doesn't work that way. You don't get well from something like this overnight."

Daniel pointed a finger towards the ceiling as if pointing out a difficult concept to a particularly obtuse student. "You do if there was an alien organism inside you making you think that you were sick when you really weren't."

MacKenzie nodded. Of course. Just another delusion. He couldn't help a disappointed grimace. Daniel had simply traded one delusion for another – life-sized, invisible enemies to microscopic ones. "Mmm. And you…found this out…how?" He made a subtle gesture to his aides while he kept the young patient's eyes focused on him. Out of the corner of his eye he noted that they were spreading out, slowly flanking Daniel in case he put up another fight.

Daniel stopped, eyes wide. "Machello told me."

More hallucinations. "Machello?"

"He's an alien old man we met on P3C-599"

Shaking his head, MacKenzie took a step forward. Perhaps he'd been too eager for a change, an improvement. Ready to grasp onto any small change in Daniel's demeanor and call it success. He must give the new drug regimen time to work. Once again he appealed to the young man's much vaunted intelligence. "Dr. Jackson, you haven't had any visitors." Not since SG-1's unfortunate visit yesterday.

One impatient hand waved away MacKenzie's statement. "No, of course I haven't. You see, Machello is dead."

The aides were moving closer, the nurse waiting calmly at MacKenzie's side for her instructions. "Dead?" Daniel's delusions were taking on more and more complexity. "Yet he told you there was someone inside you making you appear crazy?"

Daniel's soft smile was almost painful to watch, an echo of what this young man once was. Shoulders hunched, he lowered his eyes. "That's a good point. I wouldn't, uh, I wouldn't buy that if I were you either."

MacKenzie's eyebrows shot up. That sounded lucid – a logical conclusion to an extremely illogical argument. Perhaps there had been a change in his patient overnight. Perhaps they could reach this young man and pull him back from the brink of insanity, back to this world and away from his delusions.

"Just do me one favor, ok?" Daniel raised his chin, looking MacKenzie in the eye. He remained still, arms at his sides, muscles relaxed. His gaze moved slowly to encompass the aides approaching cautiously and, strangely, he smiled. "Contact the SGC, find out if Teal'c is sick. If he is…promise me you'll let me talk to Jack O'Neill." He lifted his arms to either side, palms out nonthreatening.

Yes. This was different. MacKenzie considered, watching carefully as the aides moved in, taking Daniel by the shoulders and wrists. And, for the first time, Daniel did not fight them.

MacKenzie motioned the nurse forward and she quickly injected the medicine into Daniel's arm. Daniel even returned the woman's hesitant smile. On Daniel's right, Airman Cadiz patted the patient's back before moving back towards the door.

"I won't fight any more." Daniel rubbed his hands up and down his arms.

"I'd … like to believe that, Daniel." Time would tell, MacKenzie thought.

"Don't get me wrong, I don't want to take any more drugs. I don't think I need them." The young man leaned back against the wall, his eyes falling to half-mast. "But I'm sorry for … for hurting people. And if taking the drugs is my compromise for getting you to call the base, for getting to talk to Jack, then I'm okay with that."

"That sounds …" MacKenzie hesitated, his mind already busy with plans for further testing, for blood draws and EEGs. He'd keep the current level of medication for the moment, as long as Daniel continued to respond. "That sounds reasonable, Daniel."

Daniel slid down the wall, hands resting on his knees. "Then it's a deal?"

MacKenzie nodded. "It's a deal." Yes. The sooner he presented O'Neill with the results of this new drug regimen, the sooner the Colonel would see that Mental Health was the proper place for his teammate.


	7. Chapter 7

On mental illness: "Don't ask me those questions! Don't ask me what life means or how we know reality or why we have to suffer so much. Don't talk about how nothing feels real, how everything is coated with gelatin and shining like oil in the sun. I don't want to hear about the tiger in the corner or the Angel of Death or the phone calls from John the Baptist." ― Susanna Kaysen (_Girl, Interrupted_)

Chapter 7

"I want Daniel released into my custody."

MacKenzie sat awkwardly, shock displacing the triumph that had been written all over his face. And if it made Jack smile a little wider and rock back on his heels happily, well, he never claimed to be anything but a chortling, gleefully sore winner.

"Colonel, I've shown you the test results," the doctor's hand flapped above the clipboard and notes cluttering his desk. You asked me for proof and I've given it to you. Daniel's treatment is working."

"Or," Jack inserted smoothly, "he's right and an alien … blob-thingy … that is now making Teal'c's symbiote sick was the little bugger that caused it all." He gestured towards the doctor's precious paperwork. "Box that all up and I'll take it with me and show it to Frasier."

"Colonel, you can't be serious!" This was outrageous. Unheard of. "I cannot allow a delusional patient to be taken from my custody simply because you would like nothing better than to believe he was never sick in the first place!" He took a deep breath and visibly calmed himself down. "Daniel is only less dangerous, less apt to act out, because of the current drug treatment, not because of some story about invisible alien devices made by a dead man."

Jack crossed his arms over his chest. Yeah, probably. MacKenzie was probably right. Daniel was talking about Machello as if the guy was hovering over his shoulder whispering in his ear. "But, and here's the thing, Doc," Jack started, "there was a guy named Machello. And he did make all kinds of crazy gizmos to fight the Goa'uld. So," he tilted his head back and forth, grimacing, "I chose to believe in Daniel's theory -"

"That is not a logical choice, Colonel."

"- and Hammond backs me up," he continued, snapping, foregoing the 'nice guy' act completely. "Now, you can come along, or send a nurse to keep him on schedule with his meds if you want to, but we're out of here." Jack jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I've got one teammate flat on his back in the infirmary – _dying_ – and another one locked up here because he's supposedly nutso. And that's one too many medical 'coincidences' for me."

"Colonel-"

"No." Jack mentally snapped to attention, flattened his voice into one of pure command. "Enough. Get moving. That's an order."

MacKenzie wanted to fight him – that much was obvious. Colonel to Colonel or medical man to soldier. But the guy was bright, he knew that Jack was in no mood to take prisoners. When his team was falling to pieces around him, his friends – his family – two down and counting, Jack would gladly start shooting and ask questions later. He watched the possibilities and outcomes shifting behind the doctor's narrowed eyes and forced himself to not react when he saw that he had won.

"I'll have my aides help Daniel into his BDUs-"

"Nope. I'll do it." No more cold hands, or impersonal, professional touches. Daniel needed a friend. Jack could do that.

MacKenzie's lips thinned. "Very well. But he will need to be restrained during the –"

"Again – no."

This time the doctor fought back. "Yes, Colonel. If you want to take Daniel out of here, into a closed vehicle, he will be restrained." MacKenzie's right hand smacked down on the telephone on his desk. "Or I will stop this foolishness right here, right now."

Gazes locked, the two men stared. Immovable object – irresistible force. This time, Jack yielded. Compromise. Give and take. And if he was going to get to take Daniel the hell out of here, he'd be willing to give a whole lot more. "Fine," he ground out between his teeth. "Let's get this show on the road."

~o~

He'd been more embarrassed – more humiliated, Daniel figured. Must have been. In the orphanage, or the middle school locker room. When the Abydonians had found out all the things someone as 'advanced' as Daniel had never done. Or that first night back at Jack's house, when he'd realized that his entire life, his wife, his family, had been taken away and he'd fallen, sobbing, to the floor. Yep. Must have been more embarrassing than arriving back on base in cuffs while every single airman he passed eyed him with pity. _Poor sick bastard._ _Always thought he was a little off_. He didn't need his glasses to read it in their eyes.

At least Jack was trying to act normal. Trying not to stand too close, even with his over-protectiveness at an all-time high. Trying not to reach for Daniel's elbow to steer him through hallways he knew as well as the back of his own hand. Trying not to glance his way every few seconds as if to make sure Daniel wasn't frothing at the mouth or banging his head against the wall.

After all, that was MacKenzie's job.

The doctor had insisted on accompanying them back to the SGC, had shoved Daniel into the backseat of the car and climbed in next to him. Daniel had closed his eyes and refused to watch the way Jack's jaw clenched and unclenched the entire trip. The silence was dark and solid, like a battlement between Daniel and the others, but it was better than the whispers and threats that only Daniel had been able to hear. No more voices in his head. No more footsteps or living-dead Linvris trying to kill him. No more alien old men intent on using Daniel as a weapon aimed at the Goa'uld.

His right arm jerked, elbow nearly striking the elevator wall. The damned drugs were still poisoning his mind, overwhelming his nerves and muscles, and threatening to send him into spastic tremors. He could control them – some of them, anyway. He leaned his right shoulder against the wall, pressing hard, trying to hold himself still while his half-lidded gaze watched the numbers climb on the control panel. Maybe he should be grateful for the plastic restraints around his wrists – at least they kept him from revealing quite how out of control he felt.

D2 inhibitors. Designed to reduce the production of dopamine. By now, with Machello's bug gone but MacKenzie's meds still running rampant through his system, Daniel's dopamine levels were likely to be far below normal. He knew the symptoms. Depression. Suicidal thoughts. Spastic movements and Parkinson-like weakness and tremors. From one end of the mental illness spectrum to the other in a matter of hours. What a ride. Daniel felt the muscles in his jaw bunch and release - he had to convince them to stop giving him drugs.

MacKenzie stood there, barely one step away, eying him. So convinced, so utterly sure of himself and his pet diagnosis. Daniel shook his head sharply, trying to derail the dark train of thought. At least Jack believed him. He looked up at his teammate through his lashes. Well, maybe Jack believed him. A little. Enough to get him out of that private little hell of a padded cell. Enough. For now.

He didn't notice when the doors slid open. Too busy rehearsing his arguments, shoring up his thoughts, boiling down all the humiliation and anger and pain to short statements of perfect lucidity. The military liked short statements. Daniel frowned, concentrating on his side of the upcoming confrontation, eyes nearly shut. He didn't notice Jack make a hesitant move towards the door. Didn't notice the figure stationed directly before him, waiting. Didn't notice MacKenzie straighten his shoulders, marshalling his own arguments.

What he did notice was the kind, grandfatherly voice he'd heard - warm and welcoming – so many times before. "Good to see you Doctor Jackson."

Daniel jerked backward, eyes locked onto the man before him. Something within him raised its head, some vestige of pride or confidence. No one had called him Doctor Jackson for … a long time.

"General."

Hammond didn't rush, didn't issue orders or impatiently command. His blue eyes weren't cold or professional when they checked Daniel over from head to toe. He took his time, ignoring Jack's fidgeting and MacKenzie's big-chested bluster. Finally, the general smiled, as if … as if he was happy to see Daniel. As if Daniel had just returned from a disturbing mission, from captivity, and Hammond was, above everything, above strategies or consequences or sit reps, _relieved_. He reached towards Daniel's wrists with one hand, the other going towards his pocket. "I don't think we need these any more, do we?"

"No, sir," Jack agreed loudly from behind him.

"General Hammond –"

"Doctor MacKenzie. Thank you for returning Doctor Jackson to us." The general cut through the plastic restraints with his pen knife, his gaze never leaving Daniel's. "I believe Doctor Frasier is waiting for you in her office." He smiled, nodding, as MacKenzie stepped out into the hallway beside him, and then quickly took the doctor's place in the elevator. "My office, Colonel."

Everything seemed to happen in one blurred motion around him. Jack shoved his keycard in the slot and poked buttons. The elevator doors slipped closed over MacKenzie's open mouth, cutting off what could only be a complaint, and Hammond placed one warm hand on Daniel's shoulder, holding him in place. It felt good. Daniel kept his head down, feeling the blush to the tips of his ear.

"Sir?"

"I believe it's time I speak with Doctor Jackson alone, Colonel. You're welcome to wait in the briefing room or go on to the infirmary."

Jack shifted uneasily and Daniel felt himself tense again. Jack was afraid – afraid Daniel would attack the General. Maybe Jack's overprotectiveness wasn't about Daniel after all.

The doors opened on 27 to continued silence. Hammond half-turned. "Something to say, Colonel?"

Daniel couldn't help but look into his friend's eyes. He searched for the fear, for the discomfort and awkwardness Jack had displayed back in Daniel's padded prison. He blinked, his mouth twitching in surprise at the warmth and friendship spilling from Jack's pores. Daniel's sluggish mind fumbled a few remembered words into place, added steady hands helping him dress, and multiplied it by the patience his notoriously impulsive friend showed when Daniel's tremors threatened to send him reeling. And then he wished simple math wasn't still a bit beyond him.

"I'll see you in the infirmary." Jack nodded. "We need to figure this stuff out."

Yes. That. Daniel gathered up the strength Jack was offering - had always been willing to lend him. Maybe Jack had not been as uncomfortable with Daniel's freedom as he appeared. Maybe he'd just been waiting for someone – anyone – to agree with him – to confirm his own belief in Daniel's recovery.

"We need to help Teal'c." Daniel hoped his friend would hear the gratitude there.

A few moments later, sitting across from the base commander, the man who made the most difficult and life-changing decisions for all of them, Daniel pressed his hands against his knees, willing the shaking to stop. He didn't know how he was going to convince the general to let him stay – to listen to him – to put aside all of MacKenzie's theories if he couldn't even control his body. His tongue felt heavy and thick, unresponsive. It took every effort to try to collect his thoughts from the morass of drugs and physical reactions – putting together a cogent argument felt far, far beyond him.

"Doctor Jackson," Hammond began, easing back into his chair, "I want to apologize, first, for not speaking with you before. For not taking the time to ensure that the decisions made concerning you and your care were for your best interests and, ultimately, in the best interests of this command." He tapped his hand on his desk. "And while I pride myself on the flexibility of this very unique command, and the ability of every division – scientist, officer, and strategist - to work together, the buck stops here."

"Wh – what?"

"Daniel," Hammond leaned close, "I know you're not quite feeling yourself yet, but I'm counting on you to put your understandable anger and fear at your treatment behind you and help us come to an understanding of this situation."

Anger. Fear. Resentment. Worry. Yes, all those and then some. But, hadn't … hadn't they been right? Hadn't he been acting crazy? "General, sir," he swallowed the sudden lump in his throat, "you're putting a lot of faith in my theories."

Hammond huffed out a laugh. "Daniel, I've been putting my faith in your theories for quite a while now. And it's never come back to bite me in the ass." Concern drew deep lines across his forehead. "And, son, if you've got something to say to me, I'd sooner have that out here and now so that we can get past this and put our heads together."

A burst of anger – of embarrassment – the memory of his clothes, his glasses, his very identity stripped away from him in a cold, barren room far away from his team, his family, consumed Daniel. It burned, hot and fierce, built on feelings of rejection that still lived somewhere deep within him, embers of hurt and pain that had never been fully extinguished. His breaths came short and fast, sweat breaking out on the back of his neck, his armpits, and his groin. "You don't – you can't –" His fists clenched in his lap, tremors shaking him nearly off the chair, "you don't know what it's like to … not trust … your own mind." He shook his head. "And, when the people you trust, the people closest to you, the ones you've let into your life," Daniel's mind cleared, a bitter wind sweeping the sodden clouds away, "tell you you're crazy. Send you away." His laughter tasted of ashes.

Daniel lifted his eyes to Hammond's pale face. "I'd like to know why everyone was so quick, so eager, to believe there was no other explanation. After all we've seen," he jerked his hand out, flapping it towards the Stargate, "all we've witnessed. It was as if you all were waiting for me to crack. Looking for it. Expecting it."

The general didn't contradict him, didn't hurry to deny it. He linked his hands atop his desk, unafraid to meet Daniel's accusing stare. "I've seen unbelievable things at the SGC. Alien parasites. Breath that controls my thoughts. Living dreams. Crystal beings and men who age overnight. The one thing I've learned, Daniel, is that I must be open to the very worst of my fears coming true. That I must be ready to hear that good men have died, or have been taken somewhere far beyond my reach. That's what it felt like here." He pointed at Daniel's chest. "One of my best men was beyond my reach."

"Maybe I stopped too soon. Stopped looking for another answer. Let myself be led to only one conclusion. But, know this." Hammond's eyes lightened, the lines around his eyes and mouth smoothing. "Your team never stopped. Colonel O'Neill, Major Carter, and Teal'c never once stopped looking for that answer, for the explanation that would bring you back to us. The buck stops here, son." He nodded. "Blame me."

It wouldn't be easy. Releasing the blame, the anger - the fear that still crouched there in the shadowy corners of Daniel's mind. In the deepest hidings of his soul, the darkest pits of selfishness and sulking pettiness, he wanted them to feel his loneliness, his abandonment. He wanted Jack and Sam and Teal'c to know what it felt like to be shuffled off. Drugged. Held down. All alone with the voices and the fears.

Daniel looked deep into himself and found an alien old man staring back. Selfish. Obsessed with his own hurts and woes. Lashing out at anyone and everyone, uncaring who his weapons targeted as long as he could be avenged and his enemies destroyed. Unwilling to listen. Machello.

"I – I understand, General." Daniel rubbed at the marks on his wrists, willing them to fade into the background. He remembered an airman's kind eyes and firm touch, the taste of blood, and a doctor's patience. He thought of Sam's tearful stare, Jack's appearance the moment Daniel said the word. The look of sorrow and confusion on Teal'c's face.

"I'd like to see Teal'c, now, General. Get started on figuring this out." Blame could wait. Emotions could wait. Everything else could wait.

"Of course." Hammond stepped quickly to the door. "Please tell Colonel O'Neill I'd like a report as soon as possible." He held out one hand, Daniel's keycard and glasses balanced on his palm.

Daniel stood at the open door where no guards waited, no 'escort' was poised to keep watch. A symbol of his freedom. Of this man's trust. He took a deep breath and reached out. "Yes, sir."


	8. Epilogue

On mental illness: "Don't ask me those questions! Don't ask me what life means or how we know reality or why we have to suffer so much. Don't talk about how nothing feels real, how everything is coated with gelatin and shining like oil in the sun. I don't want to hear about the tiger in the corner or the Angel of Death or the phone calls from John the Baptist." ― Susanna Kaysen (_Girl, Interrupted_)

Epilogue

"Guess I should be careful what I wish for."

"D'you say something?"

Daniel looked up from the brown study of his hands. Jack had raised the arm that he'd thrown across his face to peer at him with bloodshot eyes. "Uh, sorry," Daniel mumbled. Great. A couple more statements like that and they were liable to start looking at him sideways – again – and pack him off to Mental Health. Again. He pressed his lips together, frowning.

Too late. Jack was shifting on the infirmary bed, lifting himself on his elbows. He'd insisted on staying with Daniel until Janet – and MacKenzie – released him. Had thrown himself on the pristine sheets, boots and all, and had immediately started snoring. Daniel felt his shoulders twitch in a shrug. Still, it had felt good. Not being alone. Even if his friend was all but dead to the world.

"No, you said something. Something about 'being careful what you wish for.'"

Okay, maybe not completely dead to the world after all. "Why is it you only seem to listen to me when I don't want you to?" Daniel huffed.

"Oh, I listen." Jack flung his legs to the side, awkwardly maneuvering to an upright position. "Believe me, I listen. Why do you think my hair's gone so grey so fast?"

Daniel raised his eyebrows, looking down to where his fingers couldn't help picking at the tape that held his IV in place. "Sort of thought you got tired of the whole 'Grecian formula' thing," he mumbled.

"Oooh, funny. And stop picking at that."

Closing his eyes would probably not make Jack go away. Unfortunately, Daniel's brain chemistry had decided to level out when he could have used a nice friendly delusion.

"Frasier said you need that stuff to –"

"Would it surprise you to hear that I'm not all that interested in what Doctor Frasier has to say right now, Jack?" He made sure to keep his voice nice and even, keep any of the lingering resentment and anger carefully bottled up. Daniel was pretty proud of the fact that he'd only snapped at her once when she tried to come at him quoting his 'test results.' He wasn't ready for a repeat - even if he couldn't quite meet Jack's – or anyone's - eyes.

The sounds of Jack's enthusiastic squirming stopped. "If I were in your place? No. Wouldn't surprise me at all." A hand reached out to tap Daniel on one swinging knee. "But you're usually a lot more forgiving than I am, Danny."

The crisis was over. Teal'c had recovered so quickly that the doctors had let him go back to his quarters to meditate. Jack and Janet had responded to the concoction Sam had cobbled together without any of the nasty after-effects of days and days of escalating drug therapy to slow them down. Lucky them. Funny how 'Flaky Daniel' still felt like a specimen in a petri dish. He huffed out an impatient chuckle that finally managed to release the last strands of anger that had tried to tangle around his heart. Between his memories of Machello's obsession, Hammond's trust, and Jack's inability to take 'leave me alone' for an answer, Daniel couldn't seem to generate the necessary resentment through the warmth that was seeping in.

"And I for one am very grateful for that fact, Colonel."

Daniel paused for a deep breath before raising his head. "Janet. Doctor MacKenzie."

Jack hopped off the bed and moved to Daniel's side so smoothly it almost didn't look like he was taking sides. Almost. Daniel smiled.

MacKenzie had his hands in both pockets, his glasses having drifted down to balance on the end of his nose. His face was the bland, professional mask Daniel remembered; his eyes shadowed beneath the dimmed after-hours infirmary lights. A small bubble of curiosity rose from Daniel's gut, bobbing towards the surface. How would the psychiatrist spin this past week? How did a man like him, so certain and confident, handle a situation as … crazy … as this one? And, suddenly, an image of his teammate, of Sam, thrust itself forward.

She'd been so cold, so desperate when they'd found her and Jack in the Antarctic. An 'ice planet,' she'd thought, working until her fingers bled to find out why the DHD wouldn't work, wouldn't dial Earth. When Daniel visited her in the hospital later, after she'd been treated, she was horrified, filled with guilt over her assumptions – assumptions that kept her from dialing any 'gate but Earth's. She hadn't been able to see beyond her scientific solution to their situation.

Hammond had talked about teams working together – scientists and soldiers. This time, they hadn't. This time, the doctors – the scientists - had been louder, surer, utterly convinced they had the right answers. And the soldiers – he glanced at Jack – so over their heads, so terrified of something like mental illness, had bowed and left the battlefield.

Daniel cocked his head. He'd seen it before. Jack listened to Sam – everyone listened to Sam. She was brilliant, a hard scientist who always spoke so confidently, so assured that she was right. Climbing up the ranks in the military, literally, she'd needed that attitude. Next to her, Daniel's 'soft' science approach was easily put aside. Discarded. Maybe this had been that old struggle all over again.

"Doctor Jackson," MacKenzie began. "I am very happy to find that the symptoms of schizophrenia are completely gone. And, according to the last battery of tests, your physiology is returning to normal." He gestured towards the IV bag emptying into Daniel's veins. "This is merely electrolytes and a slight sedative to counter the last of the antipsychotics."

"Not exactly sounding like an apology." Jack's loose hold on his own anger was obvious in the snarling comment.

"Jack –" Daniel cut him off. He turned back to the medical doctors. "That's good." He tried a laugh. "I'd hate to have to spend any more time in that padded room. No offense to your hospitality, but it wasn't exactly 'homey.'"

"No, no I'm sure it wasn't." MacKenzie dropped his gaze and then looked directly at Daniel over his glasses. "I'm counting on the fact that you are an intelligent man, Doctor Jackson, who understands exactly why Doctor Frasier and I reacted the way we did."

Daniel heard Jack muttering at his side – something about 'hindsight' and 'overblown head shrinkers' – but he managed to tune him out. As he'd told his team, he'd had a lot of time to think, a lot of time to try to put everything into perspective. That and a very vivid picture of an old man who'd failed to do just that and had let resentment and bitterness turn him into a kind of monster himself.

He reached up to adjust his glasses. "I understand," he began. "I understand the tunnel-vision we scientists can get, Doctor MacKenzie. Janet. I've been there myself. But," he turned to shoot a grateful smile at Jack, "I hope I've learned – at least a little bit – to listen to other people. To people who don't necessarily think the way I do. To temper my own confidence with others' ideas and perspectives." Daniel shook his head. "Maybe it's from my experience in dealing with alien cultures." Like the US military, he added silently. "Maybe it's from my study of ancient societies and their sometimes strange and … alien … customs."

"Yes, that is definitely true, Daniel." Janet was a little pale, held herself a little stiffly. "From what I remember, Doctor Warner's comments when the three of us were trapped in the isolation lab are a good example."

Daniel nodded warily. "He was so blinded by 'standard practices' that he couldn't imagine getting at the protein marker in Sam's blood in any other way."

"And, when you add in the stigma of mental illness," MacKenzie added, "even the most," he looked pointedly at Jack, "stubborn thinkers take a 'hands-off' approach."

Daniel's smile felt real – like himself – for the first time. "We all have our shortcomings, Doctor."

"Ours seem to be continuing to underestimate you, Daniel." Janet took a step closer, telegraphing her approach as she would to a sick animal, or a mental patient – or, Daniel caught himself on the edge of anger - a friend she'd hurt.

"No," Daniel met her halfway, taking the hand she held out before she could turn the gesture into something professional. "I know, in here," he tapped the side of his head with his free hand, "that you'd have come to the same conclusions no matter who had been a victim of Machello's weapon." He folded her small hand against his chest and included MacKenzie with a warm glance. "I just hope that, if I'd been on the other side of this thing, that I'd have been as devoted, as compassionate as you were. And," he swung an elbow in Jack's direction, "so quick to come to my teammate's - my friend's - rescue."

"Hear, hear." General Hammond – with a distinctly misty Sam Carter at his side – strode forward. "Well said, Doctor Jackson."

The silence that fell around them didn't feel like thick walls any more. It didn't isolate him, didn't keep him at arm's length from Daniel's friends – his family. This time it cocooned them within this one moment, all of them tied together with friendship and respect. And forgiveness.

Of course, Jack O'Neill couldn't let that go on for long. "And, I promise, the next time Daniel starts talking about Stargates in his closet, or phone calls from John the Baptist, I'll listen."

"No you won't," Daniel replied.

"No, I won't," Jack laughed, clapping Daniel on the back.

End


End file.
